


Love is a Wild Thing (Ineffably Yours Part II)

by SecondHandNews



Series: Ineffably Yours [2]
Category: Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: Angst, Fluff, Humour, Ineffable Husbands (Good Omens), Ineffable Idiots (Good Omens), Love, M/M, Mutual Pining, No Dogs Die (I Swear), Pining, Romantic Comedy, Slow Burn, So Many Good Dogs, Soulmates, Unresolved Romantic Tension
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-08-19
Updated: 2019-12-17
Packaged: 2020-09-07 16:22:48
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 47
Words: 238,091
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20312470
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/SecondHandNews/pseuds/SecondHandNews
Summary: *** Part Three Publishing 1/1/2020 ****** Part Two Complete 17/12/2019 ***After the events at the end of Part One, London is a little different and a bookseller and a dog walker are supposed to be finding their way back to each other. The only problem is, they can’t quite remember why.As new and old worlds begin to collide, will they remember what they found in each other that was worth taking the ultimate leap of faith? Perhaps the more important question is…should they?





	1. Somebody That I Used to Know

**September. Z. Fell and Co., London.**

Inside a dusty little bookshop in Soho, a bookseller and a medium were unpacking a box of books when the ground shifted. For one of them, at least.

“Are you all right, dear?”

Zira opened his eyes in confusion, looked down to find both hands braced against a bookshelf. It was the third time it had happened in as many weeks. “Yes. Yes, sorry. Light-headed.”

The medium, who was also the bookshop’s most loyal patron, Madame Tracy, squeezed his arm, kind face relaxing into a smile as she saw him come back to himself. “Thought I’d lost you for a minute. Are you eating enough? Breakfast. Most important meal of the day.”

“I’m quite all right.” Zira shook his head, blinked away the vision of roaring fire, of a discarded ice cream melting on the ground. “Just tired. What were you saying?”

“Pass me that box, love.” Tracy held out her hands for Zira to deposit the next box into. Running a boxcutter through the seam of tape, she peeled it open to reveal a shipment of battered old books. Grinning, she pulled one free and brandished it next to her face. “You don’t mind if I…do you?”

Zira smiled, took it from her and added it neatly to the stack that was piled up near the cash register. _Single-handedly keeping me in business_, he thought.

“I was just saying, you said business has been a little slow this summer, it might be time to think about going digital.”

“_Digital_?” Zira hissed the word as if it was covered in mud, something dirty he could hardly stand to be in his mouth.

“Yes, dear, online.” Next to him, Tracy was busily alphabetising the _New In_ shelf. She never could visit the shop without bustling about neatening the organised chaos. “If you want to stay relevant you need to be online.”

“This shop has stood here proudly for over two hundred years and I’ll be damned if I’ll let it go to rack and ruin in favour of a fleeting online venture.” If there was anything that could get Zira to raise his voice it was the idea of bricks and mortar fading away to be replaced with screens and keyboards. Well, that and bureaucracy. And lateness.

“Oh, I know just who you need! Our dog walker, he’s very good at that sort of thing…emails, websites. Fixed my phone for me that time it all turned into Spanish. Charming fellow, _devilishly _handsome.” She paused to give Zira a sideways glance, noticed the brief pursing of his lips. “I’ll give him a ring right now, shall I?”

Zira waved his arms between them as panic bloomed in his chest. “No! Absolutely not. I’m not interested. Not in the website, not in anything else.”

Tracy raised both eyebrows, sighed as she gave him a quick look up and down. “Well, let’s be honest, dear, you don’t exactly have prospects knocking your door down, do you?”

_Actually_, Zira wanted to say, _I met quite the charmer myself just the other week, went away with his telephone number and everything, thank you very much_. He didn’t say that, though, just stared up at a cobweb that blew airily in the far corner of the shop. He thought back to that night, all the surprise and magic it had held, sitting side by side with a stranger and speaking things into existence he hadn’t even realised he thought until the words flowed out of his own mouth. It had scared him when he’d woken up the next morning and remembered how it had felt, how _much_ he had felt so suddenly. It wasn’t his style, to lose control. No, life was best lived within carefully drawn boundaries. No unpleasant surprises, no little shocks to the system, everything in its correct place. That was why, when he discovered he’d misplaced the scrap of paper with the stranger’s phone number on it, he had tried to put the entire evening out of his mind. Just the cherry on top of an odd day. Still, it had been a spark in the darkness, hadn’t it, for those few short hours?

“I have…prospects. I don’t need to be set up by the likes of a…stargazer, thank you very much, my dear friend.” He nodded primly, broke into a smile as they fell back into their old faux-argument about the stars. Zira was a man of absolutes and logic, had grown weary of Tracy’s proclivity for all things astrological years ago. _My moon sign does not pre-determine my perfect partner, my good woman, honestly now_.

“I was talking about prospective customers but it’s a relief to know you’re putting yourself out there. Loneliness is a killer, so they say.”

“Right, well, you can settle up for these another day, so…” He trailed off, clapped his hands together and gently ushered Tracy towards the door, hanging a canvas bag of books over her wrist as he did so. “See you soon, mind how you go.”

“I’ll tell him to come by the shop and have a chat about the website, shall I? Thursday all right for you?”

“No! I’ll be closed on Thursday. At an auction down in Essex.” A lie. A complete and utter lie. Where had that sprung from so quickly? The fear of digitisation had struck again.

“Friday then. You’re always open on Fridays. Bye for now, love.”

Before he could protest she had gone, swinging the door closed behind her and leaving Zira alone, grumbling to himself about forced change. _Everything is perfect exactly as it is_, he thought to himself, as he paced the shop and wondered if he could get away with an unexpected closure on Friday. Better not, he decided, things had been far too quiet lately.

***

_Since when did Soho have so many sushi restaurants?_ Crowley wrinkled his nose as he passed the third restaurant on the street that promised half price temaki every Friday night. London was getting stranger by the day. He shook his head, burying his hands in his pockets and striding down towards Greek Street, guitar case slung over one shoulder.

He was too tired for this, to be _on_ in front of a potential client. All he really wanted to do was retreat back to the flat, to be greeted by four paws that would welcome him home after a long day. Still, there was money in rare books, wasn’t there? Estate sales and auctions and eye-watering amounts paid for a single first edition. Might actually be a job with some budget behind it, for once.

“Go on, love.” Tracy had urged him when he’d picked up the dogs for their afternoon constitutional around the park earlier that week. “It’ll pay well and he’s a lovely chap, face of an angel. You could do with some company, might make you smile once in a while.”

He’d protested initially, said Friday wouldn’t work, it would be too late by the time he was free.

“Nonsense, he keeps all sorts of unconventional hours in the shop. He only lives upstairs, he’ll soon pop down if the shop is closed. I told him you’ll be stopping by. Just see how it goes.”

He left it then, rolled his eyes and said he _might_ go, if he had time. He ignored the comments about needing some company, let them fall away to the side like all the other pointed observations he’d received over the years. They were borne out of concern, of kindness, he knew that. Even so. He’d been tempted to mention the almost, sort of, _date_ from the other week, if it could be called that. Though, that had gone down about as quickly as a lead balloon in the end. Conversation had flown like they’d known each other for eternity, he’d felt the reassuring warmth of another thigh resting softly against his, had walked home with the start of a smile on his face. It was, it felt like, the beginning of something.

And then…nothing. Not a call. Not a text. Like it had never happened.

***

Zira pulled the door of the shop closed with a slam, glowering out into the night as he swung the _Closed_ sign into view and twisted the key in the lock.

_Absolute waste of time_, he seethed, clicking off the lights and stamping up each and every step that led up to his little flat on the top floor. Nine o’clock in the morning, on the dot, he had settled himself behind his desk and waited for Tracy’s dog walker (of all things) to arrive for their meeting. Time had ticked on and on, as time is inclined to do, and he jumped up every time the door swung open, impatiently waiting to tick the meeting off of his to do list so he could politely decline any further correspondence and move on with his life.

It was near enough twelve hours later, the sun had set hours ago, and this renegade dog walker/website whisperer hybrid was nowhere to be found. _Well_, he thought to himself indignantly, as he tugged his jumper over his head and replaced it with a soft cotton pyjama top, _that’s what you get from the online world. Disappointment._

His bad mood had failed to subside by the time he slid into bed, neatly running both hands over the duvet on either side of his body until it cascaded smoothly across the mattress. He had pulled a book from the stack on the bedside table and reread the same sentence four times before he gave up, switched off the lamp and settled back against the pillow for a good, long, uninterrupted sleep. Tomorrow would be a new day.

_Bang. Bang._

He sat up in one fluid movement, eyes snapping open at the sound of a crash against glass. _Oh no, oh no no no._ It was happening. Everybody had always told him to install an alarm, have shutters added to the doors of the shop. _Some rare books you’ve got here_, they would say, taking in the dusty tomes with a low whistle,_ very valuable_. He had thought about it but alarms came with cables and passwords and apps, all the things he couldn’t tolerate. They’d been right, though, he should have installed _something_. He didn’t listen. And now he was being burgled. _Oh, the books! They’ll take all the books_.

For the first time since that night almost three weeks ago when he’d thrown caution to the wind and sent a very ridiculous drink to a very handsome stranger, Zira did something reckless. He swung his legs out of bed, grabbed the heaviest book he could find and tip-toed downstairs to confront the late night attacker.

_You can pry my books from my cold, dead hands_, he thought menacingly, as he prowled through the dark rooms, quietly poised to fight back. 

The shop was empty. Not a book out of place, not that the books tended to ever be in their correct place but, still. He turned back to the staircase, lowering the book in his hands as he felt his heart begin to slow. _Imagining things, you old silly._

And then, like a spectre in the gloom, a silhouetted figure raised a fist and pounded ominously against the door.

_Bang. Bang. Bang._

The sound that loosed itself from Zira’s mouth was halfway between a whoop and a scream. It was not, in any universe, a noise he was proud of making. He spun around, book raised aloft like a deadly weapon, and found himself uttering a single word as he took in the stranger standing outside, miming typing on an invisible keyboard and gesturing towards the locked door. “You…”

“Well, this is unconventional.” Crowley smiled brightly and stepped over the threshold as Zira tugged the door open, slack-jawed in disbelief. He slid the guitar case off of his back and deposited it on the floor, turning in a slow circle to take in all the artfully dishevelled chaos that the shop contained.

“What are _you_ doing here?” Zira hissed, locking the door behind them, before frowning down at the guitar case that now resided on his shop floor. “I never told you where I…”

“Nice PJs. Very classic. Didn’t realise this was a sleepover, I’d have brought snacks.” Crowley gave him a once over, his eyes lingering for far longer than Zira was comfortable with. He nodded over to a bookshelf next to the door, a smirk winding its way across his lips. “Ought to move those before someone knocks them off. Hot date in the bookshop was it? _Very_ seductive.”

Zira turned to follow his eye line, found himself looking at an empty wine glass and a white mug standing side by side on the edge of a shelf. He took one juddering step forward, felt a swell of unease in his chest._ How in the world had these…?_

“What were you going to do with that?” Crowley had paced towards him, taken the book out of his arms and begun to flick through it. “Bore me to death?”

“Give me that.” Zira snatched it out of his hands and tucked it safely under his armpit. “It’s Tolstoy. Might have done some damage. I thought you were a…I thought you were trying to break in.”

“What… No, I’m here about the website. Book sales. E-commerce. Digital cataloguing. Tracy told you I was coming, right? Oh, she didn’t, did she? This is the _last_ time she talks me into…”

“No, no, she did. I didn’t know it was going to be _you_ and I certainly didn’t know it was going to be ten o’clock at night.” Zira gave a little huff to punctuate his sentence, raised his chin as if daring Crowley to argue back.

He didn’t, to Zira’s slight disappointment, just gave a small shrug as he traced a finger slowly along the edge of a bookshelf, a little mound of dust gathering against his fingertip. “I didn’t think I’d be seeing you again either, not after the radio silence.”

“Yes, well, I lost your number. I’m sorry about that. I didn’t mean to be rude.”

“You buy me a drink, you use the world’s most tired chat up line that, for whatever insane reason, actually endeared you to me. We talk all night, you drunkenly tell me you think we might be soulmates…”

Zira cut him off, shaking his head and closing his eyes in shame at the memories that came flooding back in a series of increasingly humiliating tableaus. “Don’t, please. That was a…strange day all round. Best we don’t speak of it ever again. What sort of time do you call this anyway?”

Crowley looked at him blankly. “I just finished work.”

“And they say the devil works hard.” Zira raised an eyebrow, looking from Crowley to the guitar case and back again.

“Well, it would appear I work harder.” Crowley sighed, shifted his weight onto one hip. “Look, are we doing this or not?”

“I, er, I don’t know. I mean…” Zira looked at him properly for the first time since he’d burst into the shop. The bar had been dimly lit on the night they’d met, _atmospheric, _they called it. He’d only been able to remember snatches of his face, vague poetic descriptions that had lodged in his mind and unfurled like wings if he let it wander too far: melancholy in his eyes and fire dancing in his hair. “I don’t usually do this sort of thing. It’s all so sudden.”

“Not that I’m not enamoured by the idea of another magical evening followed up with absolutely nothing at all but I meant the website. The job. You know, you paying me to bring…this into the twenty first century.” Crowley looked around at the mass of receipts wadded up next to the cash register, the ink and paper book catalogues forming a tiny tower under the desk.

For the second time in five minutes, Zira closed his eyes in the face of excruciating embarrassment. _Oh…god. _He needed this raffish night time caller out of his shop, he needed this entire humiliating exchange to be wiped from his memory, and he very much needed the quiet solitude of his personal space back. “No, no I’m sorry. I must ask you to leave. Thank you for coming all the way here but I’m afraid I’ve quite wasted your time.”

Crowley let his eyes roll slowly around in their sockets, exhaling heavily as he did so. Of course. Of _course_. Absolutely bloody pointless. “Suit yourself. Give me a call if you change your mind. Try not to lose it this time.”

He pulled a business card out of his back pocket, placed it black side up on the desk and strode past Zira without a second glance, pausing only to swing the battered guitar case back up onto his shoulder.

Zira hovered in the doorway and watched him leave, an angular outline disappearing further and further into the night until he was nothing but a shadow. He pulled the shop door closed behind him for the third time that evening, relished the satisfying thunk of the key twisting in the lock.

Safe. Sound. Alone.

Just the way it should be.


	2. Send Me an Angel

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A series of excited barks filtered up from the path below. Crowley sighed. He would know that overly dramatic yelp for attention anywhere.

**September. Crowley’s Flat, London.**

“We love it. We really, really love it. Excellent job.”

As he graciously revelled in the praise, Crowley clenched one fist victoriously. Well, thank _god_ for that. It had been an arduous road to get to this point, nights spent working until the early hours of the morning to deliver on a brief that seemed to change every time he looked at it. Solicitor websites were his bread and butter, propped up by dog walking and the occasional gig, if Mick managed to get them a slot at the club. The web development work paid well, looked good on his CV and lawyers loved a good word of mouth recommendation so it kept his calendar full enough that he could just about afford the city’s hellscape of a rental market. They came with deadlines, though, _stringent_ ones, and high expectations and a never-ending revolving door of board members who loved to share what all freelancers dread - an inexpert opinion delivered with expert conviction.

“We just have a couple of notes. Tiny things, really.”

Crowley closed his eyes, sighed, and braced himself for the inevitable.

“With the homepage banner, is it possible to change it for a slider? And we did mention the branding is just a placeholder, didn’t we? The new guidelines are coming in from head office any day now. Ah, and we forgot to mention that the board have decided to go with a new CRM system so…”

“Yep. Great. Not a problem.” Gently massaging his temples with his index finger and thumb, Crowley mentally tried to calculate exactly how many hours over budget this was going to put him. There was only one answer and that was _too bloody many_.

After promising to deliver the updated site by the end of the week he ended the call with a faux-cheery farewell and promptly slung his phone onto the coffee table before sinking back onto the sofa. The neat stack of bills stared back at him from the letter rack on the opposite wall. Mocking him. Judging him. Silently reminding him of the capitalist hamster wheel he would be running on until the day he-

“I need to get out of here.” Crowley shook his head before the existential dread could take root. It was a Tuesday lunchtime. Nobody had time for existential dread on a Tuesday. Phone in one hand, lead in the other, he let a short sentence echo around the little flat and waited for the incoming clatter of four paws thundering against the floorboards. “Shall we go for a walk?”

***

Zira stood in the shop doorway, one hand curled around a mug of tea. He watched. He waited, impatiently. _Where is that infernal man?_ His stomach groaned in solidarity. That was what you got for relying on other people, even if all you relied on was that they brought you lunch before you got too weak to go on.

He looked out at the streams of foot traffic that passed by the shop as if it was invisible: couples skipping past hand in hand, bespectacled office workers smiling down into their phones, groups of students spreading out across the pavement and spilling into the road. He heard their screeched laughter, the rising chatter of conversation that battered against the windows of the shop but filtered through as a low hum. Inside the depths of the shop there was only silence.

Zira turned away, padded through into the back room where he sank down in an armchair and continued to wait.

_Loneliness is a killer. _That was the phrase Tracy liked to trill when he protested that, yes, he was quite happy with his own company, no, he did not think it would be nice to have somebody to share his space with. She would allow him to finish his oft-repeated sentence and then give him a maddening caress under his chin, looking as if she couldn’t wait for him to wake up.

She was completely wrong, that was the problem.

Loneliness was a safe cocoon, where everything was precisely the way he wanted it to be. It was hard to build a life that satisfied your basic needs and perhaps even fulfilled a few dreams, hard enough to build one for yourself, let alone having another set of feelings and desires to worry about. He had his books, he had his carefully selected acquaintances and he had the peaceful solitude of his own creation. Loneliness was, he often reminded himself, a blessing.

The sound of the shop door opening and closing cut through his thoughts, and then an apology singsonged out into the silence as footsteps hurried their way across the floorboards. “Sorry I’m late, darling, absolute mayhem out there. World and his wife craving overpriced rice bowls today, apparently. Anyway, they didn’t have the tuna.”

“It’s just one thing after another today, Raphael.” Zira sighed, as if an arrow had just punctured a lung. It was the sound of harrowing disappointment.

“Oh, calm down. It’s Tuesday, not the end of the world. I got you the beef.” Raphael dangled a white paper bag in front of Zira’s face and sank down in the spare armchair. “And if you don’t like it you’re very welcome to battle the crowds and buy your own tuna surprise next week.”

Raphael nodded once to reinforce his point and dug heartily into his own lunch. Opposite him, Zira swallowed a smile. The back and forth ‘sulky teenager, long-suffering mentor’ act was one of the defining parts of their enduring friendship. “Well, perhaps I will.”

“Nonsense. If I didn’t bring you a pity lunch once a week who else would you speak to besides your customers? And they seem pretty thin on the ground as it is.” He nodded over his shoulder towards the door that led out onto the shop floor. “Bit of a ghost town out there, isn’t it?”

“Mmm.” Bringing the back of his hand up to shield his mouth as he swallowed a very tender strip of soy-marinated beef, Zira moaned wearily. “I thought it was just the summer slump. It’s always a bit quiet in the summer. Between you and me, I’m getting worried it might not pick back up. Nobody seems interested in _buying_ any more. They like looking, some of them even come in here just to sniff the pages, I’m sure of it, but when it comes to buying I think the market has moved…”

He stopped himself before he uttered the dreaded word, shook his head a little and turned his attention back to lunch.

“You didn’t call that chap, did you, about the website?” Raphael fixed him with a look that was equal parts parental and judgemental. “Zira, honestly. You can’t stay buried in the past forever. Expand your horizons, even if you just start with the shop. Come on now, you have too big a heart and too great a mind for a little life.”

“This is the life I have built, Raphael, and I am very happy with it. Even if it is _little_.” He slammed his empty bowl onto the table, quietly thrilled by the sound it made. He was tired of people looking at him with pity, trying to change his life, assuming he couldn’t possibly be happy just because he said he was.

Raphael covered his hand with their own, their voice softening when they spoke again. “I didn’t mean it like that, I’m sorry. You know we worry about you, that’s all. Shut up here on your own, nothing but dusty books and two old hedonists and a stargazer for company.”

“I happen to like being on my own with nothing but dusty books for company, as you well know.”

“I know you do.” Raphael smiled at him, and Zira tried and failed to ignore the sweet concern he saw in his friend’s face. “Don’t be scared to let yourself feel things sometimes, that’s all I’m saying. There’s no harm in taking a risk occasionally, is there? Start small, get the shop back to where it needs to be.”

Before the moment could brim over with too much sentimentality, Raphael’s phone buzzed to life, skittering across the table.

“Ah, the temptress summons me. _Call_ him, Zira. If you lose the shop you’ll have to come and live with us and none of us deserve that horror.” Raphael patted him on the shoulder and picked up the call as he waltzed out of the shop. “Light of my life, my morning star. I’m on my way. Yes, yes, I got the good biscuits…”

Zira waited until he heard the shop door swing closed before he exhaled a breath that was heavy with the weight of the conversation that had been mercifully cut short. It was easy for Raphael to make connections with people, could barely make it through one evening in a restaurant without leaving with a new lifelong friend. His life was _vast_, a sprawling tapestry of friends and extended family, of ex-lovers and former business partners and, at the centre of it all, Luci, the beating heart of his full, rich world.

It wasn’t for everybody though, the madness of friendship and love, the pursuit of emotional connections in a world where it seemed as though everybody had already found their tribe. Besides, any bookseller worth his salt knew that each and every title on a carefully curated bookshelf could contain a world within it. He had, on some of the longer, darker nights of years gone by, looked at his entire life as it is was a bookshelf within the shop. A row of neat, identically-sized spines looking back at him with just a single book missing, and, in the scheme of things, what did one missing book really matter anyway?

He slid the dog walker’s business card across the table, flipped it idly between his fingers and watched the alternating sides flick from black to white. The black side read _Anthony J Crowley - Website Design and Development Solutions_, while the white side simply referred to him as a _Dog Walker and Pet Sitter Extraordinaire_. Zira rolled his eyes; even his business card was chaotic. Still, there was something in the inanity of it that saw him bite back a smile, imagining that lanky, maddening man happily typing the word _Extraordinaire._

Raphael’s words about losing the shop echoed around his head. The thought had crossed his mind on those nights when he couldn’t sleep, woken suddenly from a dream where it sounded as though a faraway voice was calling out to him. He didn’t like to devote too much time to pessimism but the notion had lodged itself in his brain. He needed to do something or he would very likely be living in Raphael and Luci’s spare room within a year. A prospect that was, as Raphael had said, horrific. All that _noise_. No. That settled it. Zira picked up the receiver of the shop’s phone and began dialling the phone number. Then he slammed the phone down before it could ring.

_You’re being ridiculous_, he scolded himself, hand hovering over the phone as he stared down at the business card in his other hand.

***

When Crowley was stressed he walked. When he was twitchy from too much time staring into a computer screen he walked. When he felt the cool grip of nihilism begin to claw at his neck he walked. Three very good reasons to go for a stroll, he always thought.

On a day like that particular Tuesday, with work weighing heavily on his mind while the sun shone beautifully in the sky in a blaze of late-summer glory, an everyday walk in the usual parks wasn’t quite the soul-soothing balm he needed. He needed to escape the city.

It wasn’t a long drive to Hampstead Heath but, to Crowley, it always felt like the air was clearer, as if he could shake the stormy cloud of pessimism free from his mind and walk and walk until he found himself smiling at nothing other than the joy of fresh air and nothing but the sky above him. As he walked the curved paths of the rolling green space and listened to nothing other than the background chatter of other visitors, the faraway sound of dogs barking, he felt as though his body was uncoiling, could feel the aching in his upper back begin to ebb away. It was like emerging into another world, one where the biggest concern was whether or not he had enough change in his pocket to stop at the ice cream stand.

He climbed the meandering track that led up to the top of the park and sank onto his favourite bench, looking out across the woodland, the autumnal treetops rising up into leafy puffs of russet and burgundy. It was always a surprise, this view, seemed to change every time he visited. It was something that always struck him, the way the woods could be ever-evolving but always beautiful, in whichever form they took. There was hope in the forests. Of all of the views, autumn never failed to put on the most spectacular display, a flare of rebirth and new beginnings in hues of fire and flame.

_Loneliness is a killer. _That’s what Tracy said to him on a frequent enough basis that the phrase had taken root in his mind as a sort of cranial screensaver that ticked ominously through his brain if he didn’t keep it adequately occupied.

She was exactly right, that was the problem.

Loneliness was coming back to an empty flat with no light on to welcome you home. It was realising five days had gone by without physically speaking to another human. It was spending Christmas Day making a roast dinner for one, pretending not to cry at the end of The Snowman even though there was nobody there you gently tease you for it. Loneliness was a vacuum that tinged even the happiest memories with a grey stain. It was, in its creeping, insidious way, most definitely a killer.

It was this fear of loneliness, of standing still for too long and letting it settle over him like quicksand, that had pushed him to create a life that was full, a schedule that was overwhelming at times, and to foster the environment of a permanently open door to any kindred spirits who needed a sofa to sleep on or a fellow misfit to wile away the hours with. He saw loneliness in others, folding around them like black wings, sometimes worried that others could sense it in him too. Company was the enemy of loneliness, even if it came with four paws and a wet nose.

A series of excited barks filtered up from the path below. Crowley sighed. He would know that overly dramatic yelp for attention anywhere. He pulled himself up off of the bench and peered over the edge of the verge, sighing when he saw a big black dog running in circles around a weary labradoodle, the circles growing smaller and smaller with each rotation.

“Barnaby! NO!”

He broke into a run, waving one arm as he bellowed after a dog who paid him absolutely no attention. It was more for show really, to let the other owners in the park know that he definitely had this whole dog parenting lark down, completely and utterly, didn’t let his dog rule the roost and walk all over him, absolutely not.

“_Barnaby!_” he hissed, grabbing for the dog’s collar and swearing under his breath as Barnaby bounded away, sinking down onto his front paws and letting his tail wag in wide arcs, as if he was daring Crowley to try and catch him. He lurched forward and the dog darted just out of reach, barking twice for good luck and then cantering back towards the labradoodle that had been watching them with measured interest from a distance.

Crowley slowed to a stop, one hand clutching his ribs as he bent backwards to try and stretch out the stitch that was shooting pain through his side. _I have really, really got to get more exercise_, he thought, vainly attempting to calm his breathing to a level that suggested he could, in fact, handle a light jog across the park. After catching his breath he paced over to the awkward threesome that consisted of the cream-coated, immaculately groomed dog that belonged to an equally immaculately groomed owner, and his own canine companion, bushy-tailed and wild with jet black fur and a sharp, mischievous face that could sniff out any potential trouble within a five mile radius.

It was not the first time Barnaby had hassled her perfectly behaved dog. It was not even the first time that month. She looked at Crowley icily as he clipped the lead onto Barnaby’s collar and made off in the opposite direction, solemnly promising that would definitely be the last time. Next to him, Barnaby turned back to whine at the other dog as they were tugged further and further apart.

Satisfied the ordeal was over, for now, one very frustrated owner turned to her dog and strode off in the opposite direction, hardly noticing the reluctance with which he turned to follow her. “Come on, Angel.”

“I don’t know what you’re so happy about,” Crowley grumbled, clipping Barnaby’s harness into one of the rear seatbelts. “We can’t come back here at this time any more, not if we might run into them again. We’ll have to come in the afternoon and you know what that means? I’ll have to bring the others. All my attention diluted between you all. It’ll drive you mad.”

The dog looked at him, briefly cocked his head to the side, then resumed happily panting hot breaths an inch away from Crowley’s face.

“You can’t just choose somebody and run circles around them until they like you, Barnaby. That’s not how it works.” He continued his lecture after clipping his own seatbelt in place, turning around to stare into the back of the car. Barnaby stared back, tongue lolling happily out of his mouth. “There are rules you have to follow. Apparently. Even if nobody knows what they bloody are.”

His phone started ringing then, a vibration against his thigh that cut his lesson in canine etiquette short. He uttered a low growl as he pulled the phone out of his pocket, dreading seeing the name _Archangel Solicitors_ emblazoned across the screen. They’d already had enough of his time that day.

Oh. An unknown number. London area code. _No_, he thought, interest flaring in his stomach, _it couldn’t be._

“Hello?” He was smiling before the fussy voice on the other end of the phone had even finished his sentence. “Changed your mind then?”


	3. A Sense of Symmetry

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Crowley repeated the words under his breath and shook his head with a chuckle, wondering how exactly he had ended up drinking wine in the back of an antique bookshop, curled up in a well-worn armchair as easily as if he’d spent half his life there.

**** **Raphael’s Office, Heaven.**

“Where did you go, little ones?” Raphael murmured the words into the silence, fingers braced on either side of the window as they peered out. There wasn’t much of a view that day. The rapture had whipped the clouds into a frenzy, blanketing heaven’s view of the Earth below in a haze of white.

Raphael had heard the news at the same time as the rest of heaven’s angels, had learned that a renegade angel and demon had disappeared from existence during the rapture. That part of the plan had gone precisely as it was supposed to: the fire had risen from the depths of the planet and swept the globe, cleansing any trace of the celestial from the Earth. All that remained was the human world. Except for the fact that chunks of it were missing.

London, for example, had lost more than half of its population in the blink of an eye, and that wasn’t taking into account those residents who were lucky enough to have ascended during the rapture. There was pockets all over the Earth that were missing vital elements. Whether those elements were people, landmarks or natural wonders, it didn’t matter. They were gone, miraculously, and one furious archangel knew who was to blame.

“_Raphael!_” Gabriel slammed the door open, smashing the heavy wood panels against the wall until the ceiling shook.

Raphael closed their eyes and sighed, summoning up all of the patience they had in the depths of their soul. “Do come in, Gabriel.”

Dragging an empty chair back from the desk with a low screech against the floor, Gabriel sat down and glared at Raphael with all the malice he could muster. “Have you found them yet?”

“Who?” Raphael asked, voice airily bright as if they couldn’t possibly have any idea who _they_ were.

“You know _exactly_ who I’m talking about, don’t play coy with me. It’s been weeks, you must have heard something by now. If they contact anybody it will be you.”

“And if they do, you will be the first to know, I can assure you.” They sat back in their chair, offering up a quick prayer to the Almighty for forgiveness. Lying was a sin but, well, they had a feeling the Almighty would let this one slip by without notice.

“The only common thread between them was _you_, Raphael. I told you this would happen one day, didn’t I? Letting them run amok like…_animals_.”

“They fell in love, they weren’t animals.” Raphael swallowed, glancing toward the window. “And now they are gone. Leave them now. Enough.”

“They made a _mockery_ of heaven, they made a mockery of the Almighty, and they made a mockery of me.” He spat the final words, hands shaking as he balled them into fists in his lap. He was bubbling magma, poised to explode imminently. “And now they’ve run off into the sunset and taken half of the Earth with them. They’ve set a precedent now. The millennia it has taken me to build compliance…What am I supposed to do with this, Raphael? You’ve always got an opinion about everything.”

“Oh, I wouldn’t say that, Gabriel. I wasn’t granted much of an opinion on the Repentance and Rehabilitation Programme, was I? Or Armageddon. Or the Fall.” Raphael leaned forward, fixed a pleasantly neutral expression on their face. It wasn’t hard to conjure up. They had spent a great many years feigning neutrality for the sake of quiet rebellion. “It would seem you only seek my opinion when there is nobody left to ask.”

There had been rumours circulating, whispers in the corridors that Gabriel’s circle of loyal confidantes, those who would diligently carry out orders without a moment’s hesitation, had begun to shrink. Even Michael, they said, had been spending less time by Gabriel’s side. Up until that moment Raphael had believed it might just be idle gossip borne out of boredom now the rapture was over. When they saw the mutinous narrowing of Gabriel’s eyes, they realised every whisper they had heard was true.

As quickly as the dark cloud had settled over the archangel it retreated, and Gabriel relaxed into a dazzling smile. “You always were one of the funny ones, Raphael. Now, I’m sorry to rush off but I have an audience with the Almighty to prepare for.”

Raphael had grown accustomed to Gabriel’s pathological desire to appear very busy and very important at all times, so much so that he had been inventing fictional audiences with the Almighty since time immemorial. They had learned, over the millennia, that it was easier to humour him.

“Oh, well in that case, don’t let me keep you.” They rose from their chair, crossed the room to usher Gabriel through the door. “Give Her my best, Gabriel.”

They waited until the archangel had slammed the door behind him before they sank back into their chair and sighed, relief washing over them like a warm breeze on a summer’s day. Gabriel didn’t know where they were. Nobody did. Raphael barely dared to hope but they couldn’t quash the feeling in their chest that Aziraphale and Crowley had made it, that they were somewhere together, somewhere gentler than what Earth had become, that they would find their way back together. Even if it took a little while.

“Wherever you are, angels, don’t come back. Stay hidden, stay safe.”

***

**September. Z. Fell and Co., London.**

Rain pattered gently against the windows of a little bookshop in Soho that had been closed for a number of hours. Inside, tucked away in the cosy room that doubled up as an office and a living room, a bookseller was waiting, impatiently.

Zira stared at the clock above the fireplace and watched the second hand tick its way ever closer to the end of another full rotation. He was going to give him five more minutes and then if he hadn’t arrived he was going to call off the whole…

_Bang. Bang. Bang._

Ah, there he was. Zira dashed out of the back room and found Crowley leaning against the doorframe, one arm braced against the door with his forehead pressed to the back of his hand. Dressed all in black with dark glasses on, despite the late hour, he looked every inch a…bad influence and not at all like somebody who was going to save his business.

“Do you meet all your clients looking like this?” Zira asked as he pulled the door open, remembering the phone conversation earlier that week in which Crowley had insisted he was quite capable of fulfilling his requirements, promised he’d show Zira his extensive corporate portfolio the next time he came by the shop.

“Just the ones who buy me drinks and tell me I'm pretty.” He crossed the threshold, pushed his sunglasses up into his hairline with a wink and strode into the shop as if he was well and truly at home.

“Right, well.” Zira clapped his hands together, politely ignoring the comment as he made his way through into the back room. “Tea?”

When he didn’t get a response he poked his head back out onto the shop floor to find Crowley staring up at the ornamental sword that was mounted on the wall above the cash register, nestled next to two small bookshelves that held a revolving door of particularly valuable first editions he liked to keep above touching level.

“Tea, Crowley?” He waited to be corrected, to be told to use his first name instead. He shook his head a little, _stupid man_, it was far too familiar far too soon, _what in the world has got into you?_

“Sure, thanks.” Crowley nodded distractedly, his attention fixed on the sword. Zira felt a quiet buzz, delighting in using his nickname as if they were, perhaps, becoming friends. “Bit ironic, isn’t it? Thought you’d be insisting the pen is mightier.”

Zira laughed, stepping out across the floorboards to stare up at the sword, encased in a pristine glass box. “Yes, been here since I acquired the shop, that. Curious thing, could swear I’ve seen it…no, never mind.”

“No, go on…”

He looked around on the off chance a previously unnoticed burglar might be eavesdropping, then took a step closer to Crowley and dropped his voice. “It’s just, sometimes, if I’m out here late at night, I’m sure I’ve seen it glowing.”

***

“You _didn’t_!”

“Oh, I did. Only problem was nobody caught me and I was in bed with a concussion for the next three days.” Crowley leaned his head back against the soft worn fabric of the armchair, felt a smile spread over his face at the memory of his first (and only) attempt at stage diving. On the table between them, Crowley’s laptop was still zipped in its case, business meeting temporarily forgotten in favour of meandering chatter.

“Well, that’s what you get for having such a…devil may care attitude.” Zira raised both eyebrows in mock-judgement and then stood up, collecting both empty cups from the table and disappearing upstairs into the kitchen. A moment later, his voice filtered down the stairs. “I know this is supposed to be a business meeting but can I get you a glass of wine? As it’s a Friday.”

“As it's a Friday.” Crowley repeated the words under his breath and shook his head with a chuckle, wondering how exactly he had ended up drinking wine in the back of an antique bookshop, curled up in a well-worn armchair as easily as if he’d spent half his life there. “Wine would be great, thanks.”

Zira bustled down the stairs a moment later, carefully carrying two half-filled glasses of wine, with the rest of the bottle tucked under one arm. He smiled sheepishly. “Thought we might as well finish the bottle.”

“Ah, not quite the angel I thought you were, I see.” Crowley raised his glass. “To the beginning of a beautiful friendship.”

Clinking his glass against Crowley’s, Zira stole a quick glance in his direction, felt a tingle of excitement in his chest. “Indeed. Now, where were we?”

As the conversation finally made its way back to Zira’s vague plans to step bravely into the world of online bookselling, Crowley sat back in his chair and tapped away on his laptop, jotting down notes as the bookseller spoke about the intricacies of antique cataloguing, first editions and even the odd book launch that they held in the shop on occasion. While he had absolutely no vision for a website, and apparently didn’t fully understand how online ordering even worked, he had enthusiasm for the subject matter by the boatload. It was endearing, Crowley found himself thinking, watching him speak so passionately about books, how it felt to stumble across a rare gem at an estate sale and help it find a new home after years of languishing on a shelf at the back of a dark storage facility. To bring a story back into the light, that was what gave him purpose.

It brought him out of himself, talking about books, and Crowley was happy just to listen to him speak, to hear the love in his voice. He knew then that he wanted the project, he wanted it as much for himself as he did for the money. He liked Zira, this funny, fussy man who had approached him so brazenly and then retreated so far into his shell that he could barely look him in the eye without blushing. If an online shop could help save his business then Crowley was determined to give him the best damned website he could, even if all Zira really seemed to care about was that the online catalogue could be filtered by both publication date and author’s name.

“That’s not too complicated, is it?” he had asked, voice filled with trepidation in case it was an outlandish request. “You must let me know if I’m asking too much of you.”

“No.” Crowley had smiled reassuringly. “It’s not too complicated. Don’t you worry, angel.”

***

“Shit.” Crowley jumped up, draining his glass of the last dregs of wine. He gestured to the clock above the desk that had just chimed to announce it was eleven o’clock. “I’ve got to go, I was meant to be at the club half an hour ago, we’re on at half eleven. I’ll e-mail you the designs next week, all right?”

There was a pause, Crowley could feel it in the air, the internal battle Zira was fighting about whether or not he should speak. He lingered by the fireplace, decided, for once, not to make life difficult. Finally, Zira spoke.

“Not very good with the old, er, e-mails. Not sure if you noticed.” He let out a little laugh, approximately half an octave higher pitched than usual. “Might be better if you just pop by with them. Easier.”

“Easier.” Crowley nodded, and then he saw it. The loneliness. It was something in his eyes, the way they flicked to Crowley’s face when Zira thought he wasn’t looking, something in the way he was stretching forward just so, closing the gap between them almost imperceptibly. It was the way he had leaned into the teasing, had revelled in the nickname Crowley had bestowed on him, even if it was borne out of playful mocking. _He wants me here_, he realised, with a flutter of something in his stomach that felt a little bit like anticipation.

Zira followed him out onto the main shop floor, gestured down at the guitar case as Crowley swung it over one shoulder, laptop bag in one hand. “You only told me you were a dog walker, that night in the bar.”

“This is London, everybody works two jobs. Or three.”

“Don’t you ever sleep?”

Crowley laughed, gave Zira a look that made him feel incredibly naive. “Sleep, angel, is a privilege afforded to the rich and the dead.”

They said goodbye, and the conversation should have ended there. As Crowley stood in the open doorway, the cool autumn air clashing with the heat in his cheeks, he turned back. “A couple of us are going for a drink tomorrow night. You can tag along, if you like.”

As he turned over the options in his mind, Zira did what he did best. He dithered. He dithered until he had no choice but to respond, and he regretted the words as soon as they left his mouth. “No. No, thank you. It’s very kind of you to ask.”

Crowley nodded slowly, then broke into a mischievous smile. “Better not, wouldn’t want that halo to slip again, would we? You might end up telling me we’re destined for each other again.”

Parting words sufficiently delivered, Crowley strode off into the night, leaving Zira standing alone in the doorway, doing his very best to swallow the grin that was threatening to split his face in two.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hi all, thank you so much for all your brilliant comments and the support you've given me on this so far - it's been lovely to read through your thoughts and the references you've found to part one :D. 
> 
> Next chapter is coming on Saturday. In the mean time, thank you for reading and have a wonderful couple of days <3


	4. (You Know I Love a) London Boy

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> It wasn’t that Barnaby was difficult, Crowley always said, would be impossible for him to be difficult, given that he was the best boy in London, nay, the world.

**September. St James’s Park, London.**

_This is how I die_, Crowley thought, sucking in a gasping breath that rattled above the pounding music in his ears. His head was swimming, his vision had a vast number of black dots clouding it, and his chest was on fire. It was also the first day of his new fitness regime.

“Steady on, pal.” His words came out as a chesty wheeze as he reached down to pull gently on Barnaby’s lead, which was clipped to the hands-free dog walking belt he’d invested in the day before. He’d seen other dog walkers wearing them in the park, jogging gleefully down the paths as if it was entirely sane to go for a run with five dogs strapped to your waist. Barnaby, in keeping with his very nature, did not like to walk in line with Crowley’s other charges. No, he liked to be out in front, preferably far out in front, serving as a brave scout for the pack he’d appointed himself the chief of.

It had been a very Mondayish Monday and, after a morning filled with meetings that could have just as easily been e-mails, an extended lunch spent exhausting the dogs in the park was a welcome respite. The dogs didn’t yet seem to be exhausted, however, simply trotted along a few feet in front of him with their tongues out, smiling at the good fortune that had allowed them to stretch their legs. While the dogs still had plenty of fuel left in their respective tanks, Crowley was close to running on empty. He glanced down at the fitness tracker strapped to his wrist, groaning when he saw the distance he had covered: 2.1km.

_Really? Feels like a bloody marathon_. It was the weather, that must be it, a late flare of sunshine before autumn truly set in. Sweat had slicked his hair to his forehead and he was fairly sure even his eyelids had started perspiring.

“_Barnaby_!” he hissed, picking up the pace to keep up with the one rebel in the group who couldn’t help breaking into a gallop for absolutely no reason at all. “Barnaby, I’m serious.”

It was useless. He had spotted something: an interesting face in the crowd, a squirrel, an air current that he felt the need the protest against. Whatever it was, he was fixated and all the hissed scolding in the world wasn’t going to stop him. Crowley was tugged over the threshold from a light jog to an earnest run and a quick look at the fitness tracker told him his heart rate was high. Sky high, in fact. Higher, certainly, than it had ever been before.

The dogs cantered happily along in front of him, Shadwell and Tracy’s wiry Jack Russell terrier, Jock, and soft white-coated bichon frise, Gemini, managing to keep pace with the bigger dogs who were hotfooting it behind Barnaby.

Just as Crowley was considering giving up, throwing himself onto the ground and surrendering to the inevitable gravel burn as he got dragged along until the dogs tired themselves out, Barnaby stopped dead at the sound of a familiar voice calling to them from further down the path.

“Oh, is that you, Crowley? Fancy seeing you here!” Zira waved, rounding the corner and approaching them with a friendly smile on his face. In one hand he held a strawberry split ice cream and the other was clutching a tattered brown book to his chest.

Crowley slowed to a stop, rolling his eyes behind his sunglasses as he frantically tried to catch his breath. _Why now, when I’m actually dripping?_ He looked down to find tiny droplets of sweat soaking into the pathway, casually turned to one side and took the opportunity to wipe one forearm across his soaking forehead.

“Are you following me, angel?” he shouted back, sliding off his sunglasses and narrowing his eyes suspiciously. It was supposed to come out casually, veering into teasing territory. The fact he had to pause halfway through the sentence to take a steadying breath made a slight dent in proceedings.

_I would follow you anywhere._

Crowley furrowed his brow, looked from side to side but found nobody there. Nobody except Zira, who was approaching them with a similarly confused look on his face.

“Did you just…?” Crowley trailed off, shaking his head. “Nothing.”

Zira stopped next to them, looking down at the dogs who were regarding him with delighted interest. Barnaby, forever a contrarian, had paced back slightly to sniff at a discarded sandwich box. “So you weren’t lying, you _are_ actually a dog walker.”

“No, I just heard you were in the area so I borrowed these guys to keep up the charade. _Yes_, I’m a dog walker, why is the concept so hard to grasp?”

“You just don’t look like a dog walker. It’s the…” He paused, gesturing vaguely at Crowley’s entire body. “The sunglasses, or something. Anyway, who do we have here?”

He leaned forward, bracing his hands on his thighs as he took a closer look at the dogs. Tucking the book under his armpit, he reached out one hand to stroke Jock and Gemini, who treated him to a little lick and then went back to snuffling in the grass for stray crumbs. “Well, I know you two little devils already, don’t I? And who are these fluffy delights?”

Zira had turned his attention to the two smiling malamutes whose tails whipped back and forth in tandem as he stroked one under the chin and then the other on the neck, hand disappearing into mounds of soft fur.

“Thor. Every sled dog in London is called Thor, or Loki if they come as a pair.” Crowley gestured first to one dog and then to the other. They could have been twins, two sets of deep brown eyes staring up at Zira as if he might deposit his ice cream into their mouths at any given moment. “So this is Loki, naturally.”

“Well, you’re both very lovely indeed.” He beamed down at the dogs and then looked up with a smile as Barnaby prowled towards him, ears held back close to his head. Zira held out a hand expectantly, while Crowley took a step forward, eyes flicking between the two of them with quiet caution.

It wasn’t that Barnaby was difficult, Crowley always said, would be impossible for him to be difficult, given that he was the best boy in London, nay, the world, but he did have a demonic streak that liked to rear its head when he met new people for the first time. He would warm to them, eventually, after ensuring they understood that he was absolutely the boss of every new relationship he waded into.

The big black shepherd dog reached his long snout forward to sniff Zira’s hand, then promptly reared up onto his back legs, two front paws resting heavily on Zira’s thighs as he stretched up to treat him to a long approving lick from neck to jaw.

“Well,” Crowley said, eyebrows raised, “that’s a first. Usually hates strangers.”

“What a handsome fellow you are, Barnaby,” Zira cooed, ruffling the black mane of fur that burst out on either side of his collar.

“I didn’t…” Crowley trailed off, racking his brain for any time he’d referred to Barnaby by name in any of their previous conversations. He hadn’t, he knew he hadn’t. “I never told you his name, did ?”

Zira shrugged, then resumed scratching a particularly gratifying spot just behind Barnaby’s velvet ears. “You must have mentioned it before. I’m not a mind reader, Crowley.”

No,” Crowley said slowly. “No, better leave all that to our mutual pal, Tracy, eh? Speaking of which, I should get these troublemakers home soon.”

It was useless pretending his lunch time run was going to continue, he had been close enough to death as it was and now here he stood, visibly sweating in front of his sort-of-a-friend-more-of-a-client, thinking of nothing but hotfooting it home to stand under a cold shower until his heart rate returned to human levels. First, he needed water.

“Drink?” he asked, nodding over to the cafe that lay just off of the path, clicking his fingers to call the dogs to attention. It worked, for the most part.

Zira held up his ice cream in response, dithering as he ran through his options: make his goodbyes and head back to the shop or follow Crowley and the dogs towards the cafe. Before he could short-circuit with the weight of the decision, Crowley made it for him, turning back and calling across the park. “Are you coming, angel, or are you going to stand there gazing after me until we both feel sufficiently awkward?”

***

_He can smell me. I know he can. I can smell myself. That’s how you know, isn’t it? It’s impossible that he can’t smell me right now. Ripe. Ripe is the only word. This is why exercise is the devil’s invention._

As Crowley thought of nothing other than his own perspiration, he stared straight ahead as he walked next to Zira, the dogs strolling obediently two paces in front of them. It was one of his longer routes that day, up to Islington and circling back around to Camden before the long walk back to his flat south of the river. It also happened to be one of his favourite routes, felt like a whistle stop tour of everything he loved about the city he called home. It was afternoons like that day, when the sky was blue and the air had a hazy warmth to it, that London was at its brightest. People spilled out of pubs, lunch breaks unofficially extended on account of the weather, the hoppy tang of beer hanging in the air as they walked past sacred watering holes.

It had been a surprise, albeit a pleasant one, when Zira had asked tentatively if Crowley had the designs for the website on his phone, if he could possibly take a peek at them. While Crowley wanted nothing more than a shower, a nap, and a plate of beige food that contained more carbohydrates than any meal had a right to, when Zira had asked if they could bring their meeting forward to that afternoon he found himself incapable of saying no. _How could I, _he thought, _with that smile on his face?_

“Barnaby,” he warned, voice stern. “Leave him alone.”

Having taken quite the shine to Zira, Barnaby had cut across the pack so he could walk in between his two human companions, looking from Crowley to Zira with a wide smile on his face.

“He’s no bother.” Zira laughed, reaching down to give him an affectionate pat on the shoulder. When his voice came again it was quieter, as if he wanted to swallow the words as soon as they were out of his mouth. “Would it help if I took him?”

It was a quiet thrill, Zira thought, to be trusted with the leader of the pack, this imposing black ghost who had warmed to him on sight. He swelled with pride at being chosen, picked out amongst a sea of strangers as somebody worth knowing. It was a small thing, he knew that, but when Crowley unclipped the lead from his belt and deposited it in Zira’s hand, it felt like a milestone on a journey with a wonderfully shrouded destination.

And so they traipsed through the streets of London in the sunshine, a dog walker and a bookseller, a tangle of leads between them. Crowley could feel Zira’s eyes on him, flicking to and away from his face so quickly he might have missed it, if he hadn’t been looking right back.

It was a strange comfort, somehow achingly familiar and utterly new all at once, walking peacefully in tandem with another as if they were part of a set, a duo passersby might look at and think _yes, they fit together perfectly._ He caught Zira looking down at Barnaby with soft devotion on his face, lips pulled into a smile of contentment, wisps of hair blowing airily in the breeze. It was then, on an exceptionally mundane Monday, that a lightness took root in Crowley’s psyche, burrowing itself into a long-dormant corner of his mind and turning over and over until he felt dizzy with unexpected longing. At that precise moment of revelation, a droplet of sweat slipped into his eye, vision clouding with the sting of it.

_That’s it,_ Crowley thought, the anticipation he had been carrying around in his chest deflating as quickly as it had arrived, _I will forever be known as the web designer with the damp forehead and quirky hygiene habits. Goodbye, my enigmatic bookworm, it was fun while it lasted._

_Does he realise, _Zira thought, stealing another glance as his front teeth dug unconsciously into his lip, _that until today I thought he might not actually exist, that he might be a wild fever dream that I slip into when the sun goes down?_

***

“Thanks, love. How were they?” Tracy reached out to take the leads from Crowley as he stood on the top step of the little front garden that led up to the perfectly charming house the couple had acquired shortly after the wedding eighteen months previously. A slice of country living right there in London, she always called it, a miracle to get any sort of garden space at all in the city.

“Perfect little terrors, as always.” Crowley smiled and turned to go, looking back over his shoulder as Tracy’s voice pierced the sky.

“_Zira?_ Why are you hiding down there, dear?” Face positively illuminated with righteous victory, she leaned out of the doorway, eyes all but bulging in delight as she spotted Zira and Barnaby waiting at the end of the path. She turned back to Crowley, giving him a slow nod of approval. ”What did I tell you? Face of an angel.”

“_No_,” Crowley interjected before she could get any further, dropping his voice. “Just a walk. A perfectly platonic walk. Don’t start.”

“Perfectly platonic.” The words were accompanied by an overtly inconspicuous wink. “Bye, love. Bye, Zira!”

Zira raised his hand in a cheery wave as Crowley powered down the path, taking him by the sleeve and ushering him away before any further _helpful_ comments could be wailed into the ether.

With Thor and Loki locked safely inside their home to recline lazily on the hallway’s tiled floors until their owners arrived home from work, Crowley and Zira meandered down to Soho to reopen the bookshop for the afternoon and pretend the hastily rescheduled business meeting was the only reason they hadn’t yet bid each other farewell.

“Now, listen to me.” Crowley crouched down in front of the shop and fixed Barnaby with a stare. “You have to be a good boy. No jumping on the furniture, no scratching the floors, and absolutely no sniffing the books. Promise?”

He held his hand out, waited for Barnaby to shake on the deal, and then the two of them followed Zira into the shop.

“Shall we get you some water, my dear fellow?” Zira ushered them through to the back room, disappearing upstairs and returning a moment later with a cereal bowl full of water. He placed it in the corner and stood back as Barnaby careened towards it, showering the surrounding floorboards with stray droplets of water as he lapped greedily.

“_Neatly_,” Crowley scolded, turning to Zira and raising his hands in apology. “Sorry, he’s, er, enthusiastic.”

Zira sat down at his desk, fingers fumbling around the back of the ancient computer monitor for the power button. As they waited for it to boot up, Crowley horrified at the torrent of dust that had built up on top of the machine’s keyboard, Zira turned to him with an expression of gentle mocking playing about his lips. “Do you know, Crowley, that I don’t think five minutes have passed today without you apologising for something? These floorboards have weathered more storms than a thirsty dog on a hot day, I can assure you.”

There was a story there, Crowley assumed, was about to enquire further when the computer groaned to life, as if it was more than ready to surrender to the sweet release of death. “You should save yourself the hassle of working with me, angel, just auction this thing off and you’ll keep the shop in business for the next decade. I don’t know why you’re dealing books when you’ve got an antique right here.”

“It’s not antique, it's _classic._” Zira sniffed defensively, inputting the wrong password four times, keystrokes growing increasingly heavier until he finally gained access to his e-mails. “You sent them to me already, did you?”

“Ten minutes ago, should be top of the list. Five hundred and…_how_ many unread e-mails do you have?”

“Not so good with the old e-mails, I told you that. Perhaps you should get in the driver’s seat, as it were.”

Crowley did, as suggested, get in the driver’s seat, trying to block out the stomach-twisting behemoth that was Zira’s unread e-mails. He had always thrived on spontaneity when it came to life, enjoyed hopping onto the rollercoaster of existence and seeing where the chaos might take him. When it came to the finer details, though, the admin and finances and digital correspondence, he craved order, neatness. Outer mayhem, inner calm. Zira, it seemed, was his exact mirror in both respects. His life, little though it might be, was meticulously uncomplicated and calmly predictable, while the minutiae was crammed with overflowing letter trays of paper bills, loose cash stashed in the most unlikely of places, and an e-mail inbox that would require a specialist team to tame.

The designs went down a treat, to Crowley’s relief, Zira staring in wonder at the prototype for his new online venture.

“Will it really look like this?” he had exclaimed, leaning in close to the screen for a better look, turning to Crowley with a joyous grin on his face. Crowley had nodded back, soaking up every drop of the approval he hadn’t realised he was craving. Zira stabbed one finger at the screen, circling the full stop after his initial that was infilled with a tiny globe of cream and sky blue tartan. “You got everything. Even the tartan, look!”

As Zira clicked through the designs, voice rising in volume and pitch with every new page he discovered, Crowley found himself powerless to drown out his inner monologue and all the imagined theatrics it brought with it. _If this was a movie he’d turn to you any moment now and ask if you want a shower, to cool down after the marathon you spectacularly conquered earlier. He might pass you a towel through the shower curtain, oh how the two of you would laugh, and then he’d be left with the memory of you, two footprints on the bath mat, the scent of shampoo in the air. As it is, because this is not, in fact, a movie, the only memory he’s going to be left with is a sweaty arse print soaking into his vintage armchair. This never happened when all you did was eat chips and lay on the sofa, did it? Never been cock-blocked by carbs, have you? Think about that next time you decide a lunchtime jog is a good idea._

***

It had become a tradition, intentionally or not, for Crowley to hover in the doorway of the shop and extend their goodbye by a few lingering moments before they parted ways until the next time an arrangement, or fate, brought them back together.

“Thank you for today,” Zira said, punctuating the silence as he ruffled Barnaby between the ears. “For everything you’ve done for me. I imagine I’m not the easiest client you have to work with.”

Crowley laughed at that, thinking about the evenings spent holed up in the back of the shop, wine glass in hand as they talked about branding and colour schemes, compared to the laborious meetings and endless rounds of unpaid edits his other clients demanded without a word of gratitude. “Trust me, there’s a reason I started calling you angel. You're what we, in the heady world of freelancing, refer to as a unicorn.”

“Oh, well, that’s very…” Zira looked down, trying to swallow a smile that was threatening to betray his carefully curated shyness. “That’s very kind of you.”

A beat passed, then another, and then Crowley spoke before the words unsaid could begin to run riot. “Busy weekend ahead with the books then?”

“I have _plans_, you’ll be surprised to hear.” _Not plans I’m excited about_, he thought to himself, stomach churning at the mere notion of the horror Raphael had roped him into, _but plans nonetheless._

“I, too, have _plans_.” Crowley reached down to stroke Barnaby’s snout absent-mindedly as they turned to leave. “Perhaps I’ll see you there. Seems to keep happening.”

They burst into simultaneous laughter, both shaking their heads in amusement. Crowley thought about what his Saturday evening had in store, tried to picture fussy, uptight Zira fitting into that landscape. _Not a chance_, he thought as he paused on the street corner and raised his hand in a final goodbye, _not a single, blessed chance._


	5. Growing on Me

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> It sounded, Zira had thought, like the beginning of stepping outside his comfort zone. And so, reluctantly, he had agreed.

**September. Crowley’s Flat, London.**

“What do you do when you get tempted to call him?” Crowley asked, peeking his head around the door to find Sammy staring forlornly at his reflection in the bathroom mirror.

“Seek solace in whisky?” Sammy met his eyes in the mirror, rebelliously draining his glass without breaking eye contact.

“No, no you do not.” Crowley took a step forward to tug the empty glass from his friend’s hand and replace it with a bottle of aftershave. “You look in the mirror and say _I am Sammy, hear me roar_, or something like that. I don’t know, mate, just don’t call him, all right?”

Sammy turned to face him then, spritzing the aftershave around his head in a cloud that draped itself on his skin. He sniffed the air, nodded slightly in approval. “The point of this ordeal is to forget about the fact I’m a divorced postman with too much around the middle and too little on top. So far all we’ve done tonight is talk about my failed marriage.”

“There’s nothing wrong with being a postman, Sammy, we all need letters. You’re changing people’s lives every day.”

“Oh, they’re always bills, Crowley, don’t patronise me. I’m the harbinger of debt.”

“Maybe don’t use that line later, just a thought.”

Crowley clapped a hand on his shoulder and guided him into the living room, shooing Barnaby off of the sofa so Sammy could sit down. He was nervous, Crowley could tell, mostly by the way he kept muttering _I’m so nervous_ under his breath. It was only natural, his first night back in the game after his divorce had been finalised three months previously. With their other bandmates sickeningly happily with their respective other halves, it had fallen to Crowley to introduce Sammy, their reliable, sweet-natured dummer, to single life.

“I don’t think I can do it, mate. Why did I let you lot talk me into this?”

Crowley leaned out from the bathroom, toothbrush hanging out of his mouth. When he spoke his words were a frothy mishmash of thick sounds but the two of them had been friends for long enough that Sammy could translate without a problem. “None of this was my idea, if you recall. I’m just the moral support.”

As Barnaby listened patiently to Sammy’s reservations about the night ahead, Crowley pulled the bathroom door closed and turned his attention to his reflection. Or tried to, at least. He should have been concerned about whether his hair was laying right, if the shirt he was wearing brought out his eyes or if his shoes suggested he had a lucrative career or whatever else it was that people worried about when they went to these kind of things. The trouble was, lately his thoughts seemed incapable of staying where they were supposed to. They had a tendency to drift, inevitably, to a certain halo-haired bookseller who was absolutely not supposed to be occupying space in his brain. Especially not on a Saturday night. _Especially_ not when he was already two drinks into the evening and a flurry of drunken texts was looking very appealing indeed.

_Sort yourself out, for god’s sake_, he scolded his reflection, _he’s got his own plans tonight anyway._

***

Zira slammed the phone back onto the receiver and sank down onto the edge of the bed, hands clasped and thumbs carouselling around each other to give them something to do that didn’t involve fussing with his hair.

“Ridiculous,” he hissed the word aloud. One of the most precious benefits of living alone was the ability to provide a running commentary on his day without anybody overhearing him. “_Ridiculous_ that you let yourself get talked into this. Honestly.”

When Raphael had approached him with the idea Zira had adamantly refused, hadn’t even let his friend finish his sentence before he had insisted it would _absolutely not_ be happening. Yet there he sat, best shirt buttoned up and the scent of a new cologne clinging to his clothes. He felt simultaneously nauseous, head-poundingly nervous but, somewhere underneath all of his insecurities, a little bit excited. Even if it was a disaster, which he knew it would be, it would make a funny story. And now, he thought with a pleasant shiver, he had somebody to tell his funny stories to. He could recall Crowley’s face as easily as if he’d gazed upon it for eternity, that wicked smile, those piercing eyes that seemed as though they might set his soul alight if he peered into their depths for too long.

Shaking his head to clear his mind of distractions he definitely didn’t need, he tried to get through to Raphael again. The call rang out, clicking over onto voicemail as it had the previous three times.

“I’ll meet you there,” Raphael had said. “I’ll get a drink in the bar upstairs. If it all goes pear-shaped we’ll go and get dinner and chalk the whole thing up to experience. How does that sound?”

It sounded, Zira had thought, like the beginning of stepping outside his comfort zone. And so, reluctantly, he had agreed.

***

“Welcome everybody and thank you for coming to Chat, Choose, Date. We pride ourselves on running London’s _most_ successful speed dating nights so, if you can talk the talk, you might just find _the one_ here tonight. My name is Robin and I’m going to talk you through how things are going to work…”

Zira tuned out Robin’s very enthusiastic voice as he gleefully explained how the seating rotation, score cards and matching process worked. He stared down at the phone in his hand, glowering at Raphael’s hurried text.

_Zira, so sorry, completely forgot I double booked myself tonight - an opening at the gallery. Dinner tomorrow to make up for it? Don’t forget to have fun. What’s the worst that could happen? You might even meet someone, imagine that! R x_

He almost turned and marched right out of the door there and then. The evening hadn’t even begun and it was already the worst case scenario. Waves of confidence rolled out from the crowd next to him, battering his fragile outer shell until he realised the depth of his error. He could have been nestled under a blanket with a book and a cup of cocoa, biscuit tin within convenient reaching distance. Instead he was dilly dallying on the periphery of a group of immaculately-styled, intimidatingly-handsome, hungry-eyed candidates and he was expected to _sit there_ and impress the contents of his very soul on them within _five_ minutes. He felt like a lamb to the slaughter, a deer in the headlights, and every other vulnerable animal-related phrase that was eluding him in that particular moment.

“Any seat, sir.” Robin appeared in front of him then, gesturing to the rows of white tables and chairs that were ready and waiting for their first victims. It was so _clinical_, so forced. How could anybody conjure up an actual connection in such an inorganic atmosphere? Thoughts snowballing out of control, he settled himself behind the nearest table and awaited his fate. It was quite possible, Zira thought, that he was edging towards silent hysteria.

***

Speed dating was not Crowley’s modus operandi. His soul (like every other soul, he supposed, wasn’t vain enough to presume his was in any way special) didn’t connect to the pedestrian, to job titles and dime a dozen hobbies like _the gym, cooking, the great outdoors, _to desperately throwing bands and TV shows out into the ether until enough generic common ground was built up to warrant a date that both parties knew deep down would lead nowhere. He connected to the moments that caught him off guard, the magic of unexpected connections that left his heart full and his mind bubbling over with heady anticipation. He revelled in the intensity that bloomed in those early days, the _before_ times, when every lingering glance was a delicious secret, and every conversation brought with it new milestones to lock away and revisit in the daydreams between the next stolen moments.

The basement of a wine bar in Shoreditch, he was fairly certain, was not the place in which his soul would find its romantic home. By the time he had wiled away five minutes with tables one and two, his certainty had firmed itself up even further.

Table one hadn’t even asked for his name, had simply nodded towards the movie star handsome man at the table in front of them and asked Crowley if he thought he might be in with a chance. _Excuse me, I could be the god damn love of your life, _Crowley had thought sullenly, before craning his neck to get a glimpse at the man in question and reconsidering. If that was his competition he might as well slink out with his tail between his legs.

Table two had asked for his name, which was somewhat of an improvement, but had then proceeded to spend four minutes and forty seconds giving Crowley the rundown of his recent break up and asking if he thought his ex changing his Netflix password meant it was really over. The last twenty seconds were spent in awkward silence, before Crowley propelled himself out of the chair the second the cheery little bell rang to signal the next rotation.

It had only been ten minutes and he had grown to hate that bell. That bell represented failure. It represented disappointment. It represented loneliness, rejection, the curse of wandering the globe alone for eternity. It represented his long-held fear that there was something innately _wrong_ with him, a veil that separated him from the rest of the world, a reason he had always felt like an _other_ in a sea of people who seemed to flit from love story to love story without hesitation or difficulty.

This was supposed to be a fun night, he reminded himself, a way for Sammy to get back out there and realise that the notion of soulmates was a quaint throwback forever relegated to the past, to a time before speed dating and ghosting and divorce rates that seemed to climb every year. True love, it seemed, was a hazy dream of days gone by. He shook the cloud of pessimism loose as he strolled over to the next table, attempted to paste a friendly smile on his face and slid into the next seat.

***

There were fifteen men rotating from table to table, Zira counted, which meant another fifteen were seated behind the ghastly white tables. Twenty nine men, excluding himself. He had met four so far, and he had already lost both the will to live and his tenuous belief that love was a concept that existed in the modern world.

Things had gone from bad to worse to skull-shatteringly awful. His first fleeting visitor had opened the conversation by asking what he did for a job, then spent their remaining time waxing lyrical about why the book industry was on its way out, set to be replaced with virtual reality storytelling. Candidates two, three, and four had all merged into one grey-tinted amalgamation. One of them was called Steve, he thought, had a warm smile and a pleasant, albeit nervous energy surrounding him, or maybe he was called Sam. Or Dave. He couldn’t quite recall.

Candidate five sat down in front of him. He was, without question, a very handsome man. Designer stubble, a shirt that likely cost more than an entire shelf of Zira’s inventory at the shop, and a smile that oozed self-confidence. His presence was staggeringly intimidating, left Zira wanting to curl in on himself before he’d even uttered a word.

“Nice shirt.”

Oh. Well, that was a surprisingly understated start. Zira met his eyes, risked a little smile and grasped the collar of his shirt between his index finger and thumb. “Oh, well, thank you. I-”

“Would look better on my bedroom floor.”

_Oh_, _good lord. _The man leaned in, offered him a dazzling grin, and Zira found himself staring down into his glass of wine to avoid rolling his eyes. It was all so…rehearsed. So aggressively to the point. Where was the charm? The playful teasing? The genuine interest in what he might have to say? He cut his train of thought short as a flare of shame reared its head as he remembered his own opening line on the night he had had a moment of mad courage and sent an appletini to a charismatic stranger across the bar. Was _he_ Crowley’s equivalent of this over-confident lothario? He would call him later, he decided, once he had managed to slip away from this unmitigated catastrophe. It was only polite, after all, to apologise. Not that Crowley had seemed to mind too much; his memories from that night were hazy at best but he remembered the warmth of their thighs pressed together under the table, the reassuring weight of having _somebody_ leaning against him.

“This isn’t going to happen, is it?”

Torn away from his thoughts, Zira turned his attention back to the man sitting opposite him, who was waving a finger between them and already looking over Zira’s shoulder at his next destination.

“No, I don’t think it is. Best of luck on your, er, quest.”

The words had barely left Zira’s mouth before the extraordinarily handsome man got up without a goodbye and hovered behind the next table until the dreaded bell rang to signal it was time for the next rotation. Zira rested his wine glass on the table’s surface, fingers gently pushing it in a small circle to aerate the contents. He had gone for a glass of red, a departure from his usual white. _Time for a change_, he had thought positively when he’d first arrived, before the unease had had a chance to set in.

Perhaps he could slink out during the next bar break, slip unnoticed up the spiral staircase while the others were stampeding to refill their drinks. With Raphael having forsaken him, perhaps he would be brave, call Crowley and offer that apology, he might even work up the courage to…

“Well, well, well, we have got to stop meeting like this.”

At the sound of that spirited voice, Zira looked up. Standing there, looking very much like temptation incarnate, was Crowley. He felt himself relax into a smile that was equal parts wonder and abject relief as Crowley sat down opposite him, practically horizontal as he sprawled across the chair.

“_This_ was your Saturday night plan?” he asked incredulously, swallowing the desire to reach right across the table and grab his hands, give them a little shake, and thank him for saving him from the quagmire of indifference the night had held so far. At last, that bubble of welcome trepidation he had been waiting for unfurled itself, that feeling of standing on the edge of something, the pounding heartbeat before freefall.

“Prospects were getting a bit thin on the ground. Look at you, putting yourself out there. Good for you, angel.” Crowley scrunched his nose in a way that was supposed to be gently patronising but merely led to Zira gazing back at him as if he was the most welcome sight he’d seen all night. He felt a flicker of consolation then, replacing the creep of disappointment that had clenched in his chest when he’d spotted Zira there, hopeful optimism on his sweet face. Perhaps the bookseller hadn’t yet met his perfect match, hadn't been swept off of his feet by one of the others there that night. Crowley drummed his fingers against the table, glancing up at the countdown clock ticking through the seconds on the opposite wall. “You’ve got four and a half minutes to convince me to fall in love with you. Tick tock.”

A small sound escaped Zira’s lips and he followed it with a cough, clearing his throat dramatically lest the whimper of desire give his intentions away. He swallowed a mouthful of wine, then fixed Crowley with what he hoped was the embodiment of nonchalance. “_You_ first. This is ridiculous, this entire set up. Five minutes to get to know somebody, indeed. I wouldn’t even know where to begin.”

“Well, you could start by showering me in compliments. Everybody loves a compliment. Even you, I bet.” He paused to lean forward, ran the back of one finger down the buttons of Zira’s shirt. “Looks good on you, very dashing, and is that a new cologne?”

“Oh, yes, my barber suggested it.”

“Suits you. See? Everybody loves a compliment.” Crowley watched with amusement as Zira dithered opposite him, mouth opening and closing twice before he gave up and sought guidance in the bottom of his wine glass. It was bordering on devilish to disarm him, he knew that, but it was far too easy to leave him flustered and fussing for the right words to snipe back with. It was refreshingly new, this back and forth, but they had slipped into the dynamic as easily as if it was an old habit.

“I do like your hair.” Zira murmured eventually, affected sulkiness giving way to a reluctant smile. “And you’ve got a nice smile. I suppose.”

“You _suppose_. Don’t go overboard, I might end up down on one knee before the night is over.” Crowley cocked his head to the side and Zira swallowed hard, trying to bury the flutter that was raging inside his ribcage.

“I meant to say, I’m sorry, Crowley, about that night in the bar.”

_Really, _he thought, _you’re going to do this right now, in the middle of a crowded room? _Crowley felt his smile falter, blinked slowly and then spoke, voice as light as he could manage. “You don’t need to apologise, it was just one drink, you don’t owe me anything.”

“Oh! No.” Zira shook his head, eyes widening as he reached out a hand that was quickly retracted. “No, I meant for coming on so strongly. I'm sorry if I made you uncomfortable with my...advances.”

In a move Zira hadn’t anticipated, Crowley threw his head back and barked out a laugh, as if the very notion that Zira could possibly make him uncomfortable with his brazenness was utterly hilarious. He calmed down eventually, all but wiping a tear from underneath his eyes. “That was you coming on strong, was it? God, they’re going to eat you alive, this lot.”

Zira leaned in, dropping his voice as he glanced over his shoulder. “That man, the one behind me, he suggested my shirt would look better on his bedroom floor. The _audacity_.”

Now that, Crowley reasoned, might be the final nail in his coffin of confidence. Mr Megabucks McMegawatt Smile and his fancy pants chat up lines compared to…_hello there, it’s me, a humble dog walker, wonder if you might be in the market for a soulmate. The perks are that I can cook the world’s best scrambled eggs. The cons are literally everything else._

“Smooth bastard,” Crowley hissed under his breath, searching Zira’s face for any trace that he might have been impressed by the previous candidate. He relaxed, finding only quiet horror there. _You can’t go in all guns blazing with this one, mate, _he thought smugly, _he’s special. No. I mean different. No_, he signed resignedly, _I do mean special._

_It’s just tonight_, Zira thought to himself, as he traced the outline of Crowley’s lips with his eyes. Mesmerising, almost. Impossible to look away. _Don’t get carried away, old chap. He’s not here for you anyway, he’s here for prospects. You’re not a prospect, you’re a bookseller who should know better._

And then, before either one of them could speak again, the infernal bell rang out, signalling the end of their five minute respite. Crowley stood up with a sigh, rested a hand on Zira’s shoulder and leaned in close to his ear. “Big fan of that new cologne, angel.”

As he went to leave, in a wholly unprecedented move that shocked both parties, Zira reached up and wrapped his fingers around Crowley’s wrist. He turned back, found a pair of blue eyes trained on his, soft and serious. “Don’t leave without saying goodbye, will you?”

***

As the excruciating matching process began to wind down, Crowley was many glasses of wine down and feeling suitably merry. Not merry enough that he was enjoying the process of pretending to have an interest in candidate after candidate who, collectively, had become a swirling collared shirted blur of white noise. Merry enough, however, that by the time the last bell rang he had spent the last six rotations openly staring at Zira without a care in the world. Elbow resting on the edge of the table, chin supported against his open palm, it was the perfect position for wanton gazing. One man had even resorted to snapping his fingers in front of his face to try and refocus him.

“Sorry,” he had said, holding his hands up in apology. “We were talking about…football?”

“_Cricket_,” the man had spat, angrily pulling out his _Chat, Choose, Date Scorecard_ and carving a cross in the _Not My Type _box next to Crowley’s name.

The bookseller was trying to take the night seriously, Crowley could tell by the way he nodded with interest whenever the candidates sitting in front of him were speaking, the way he smiled politely when they sat down and then, five minutes later, stood up to leave. It was in his nature, of course, to give it his best attempt, to at least try to play by the rules, even if Crowley had caught him staring back on more than one occasion, a loaded glance that felt as though it contained worlds within it.

As the bell sounded with all of the glorious relief of peeling off a skintight pair of jeans at the end of a long day, Crowley bid his final companion a successful manhunt and turned his attention to Zira, pointing to the bar and waving his empty glass around to reinforce the point.

“Now that’s over with.” Zira joined him next to the bar, raising his eyebrows before ordering a bottle of red and holding his card against the reader without a second thought. _Didn’t even flinch at the price_, Crowley noticed with a swell of affection, _classicists and their wayward approach to finances. _“We can just chalk it up to experience.”

“It was definitely that.” Crowley accepted a glass of wine, pausing to clink his glass against Zira’s. They found an empty corner of the bar, leaned back against an unoccupied table and observed the rest of the room as if it was an enclosure at the zoo. “So, angel, who's leaving with who?”

Zira nodded to a couple who were locked in a very intense wrestling match. Tongue wrestling, naturally. “They look rather cosy.”

“Cosy.” Crowley gave him a sidelong glance. “Nah, they won’t be leaving together. They’ll slope off to the toilets any moment, exit thirty seconds apart and never speak to each other again.”

“Seven minutes in heaven indeed. And they said romance is dead.”

***

It might have been the wine. Or the evening itself. Or the proclivity for intimacy that finding the only familiar face in a crowd of strangers drummed up, but Crowley was intoxicated. Every word that tumbled out of Zira’s mouth sounded like a symphony, every tiny brush of his sleeve against Crowley’s wrist was maddening, every shared smile brought him closer to hurling client/contractor propriety out of the window, grabbing the bookseller’s face in both hands and laying a kiss against his lips that would go down in the history books as one for the ages. He didn’t though, just stood by his side and quietly pined, biting out the occasional soft insult to keep up appearances.

“Oh, here he comes. Angel, someone I’d like you to meet.” Crowley was pulled out of his fantasy as he caught sight of Sammy emerging from the crowd as if he was wading through mud, legs jellylike and face aghast at an as yet unspoken horror. “All right, mate? You look…scarred.”

“I don’t know what came over me. I had a moment of madness. I…Oh, give us a glass.” Sammy paused, voice slurred as he grabbed messily for the wine bottle. Crowley winced apologetically over his friend’s head but Zira laughed, plucking an empty glass off of the stack at the end of the bar and passing it to the already inebriated drummer-cum-postman.

“Zira, this is Sammy, I’m meant to be his, er, moral support for the evening.” He gestured between them, realising that they already knew each other, had spent five minutes feeling out whether or not they might want to become an _us_. He shook away the notion, didn’t want to let the idea take root. “Sammy, this is Zira, he’s a…friend?”

It was not supposed to come out with an audible question mark at the end. That was absolutely not a thing that should have happened. Crowley closed his eyes, hoped that both of them were too far gone to have caught it. Helpfully, Sammy took that precise moment to fill them in on exactly why he was so shaken.

“You see that guy?” He raised one quivering finger to point at Mr Megabucks McMegawatt Dickhead, as Crowley had now christened him, petulant dislike flaring up as he imagined Zira’s shirt crumpled on his floor. “I asked for his number.”

Crowley shrugged, it could have been worse. Then, voice trembling, Sammy continued.

“I asked for his number while he was kissing someone else.”

Next to them, Zira choked on his drink. “What did you do? Tap him on the shoulder?”

“That’s _exactly_ what I did,” Sammy wailed, gulping from his glass as if the only escape from humiliation was total blackout.

“Steady on, little fella.” Crowley held a hand over his glass, suddenly remembering he was the one tasked to get Sammy home at the end of the night.

“Don’t call me that in public,” Sammy hissed. “Not when I’m trying to be seductive.”

As they bickered, Zira was happy to take a step back and watch them. His interactions with Crowley had been almost exclusively one on one; he had only had a glimpse of his wider world when they stopped at Tracy’s house to return the dogs after their walk a few days previously. It was comforting to step into his orbit, even if he was only tiptoeing on the sidelines.

“Help me out, angel.” Crowley reached out for him then, his fingers finding their way to the small of his back for a moment so fleeting it left Zira wondering if it had happened at all. “One little set back isn’t a reason to give up, is it?”

“Of course not, resilience is admirable.” Zira smiled at Sammy, remembered him as the one with the pleasant smile whose company he had come close to enjoying earlier that evening, before everybody had been eclipsed by Crowley’s all-encompassing shadow. “If at first you don’t succeed…”

“_Exactly_.” Crowley caught his eye over Sammy’s shoulder, gave him a wink of solidarity that left Zira reaching back to grip the table behind them to steady himself. “How about that guy? He’s on his own. He looks like your type. Aim high.”

“Tall, dark, handsome? Check, check, check.” Emboldened by one last mouthful of wine, Sammy rolled his shoulders back, gave them both a resolute nod of the head and then strode towards the crowd, the heady combination of newfound confidence and determination coursing through his veins.

“Once more unto the breach, dear friends, once more.” Zira watched him leave, then turned his attention back to Crowley. “Did you, er, fill out your Scorecard?”

“I did.” Crowley’s lips lifted ever so slightly, eyebrow raising in interest. “And you?”

“I did.” Zira met his eyes, looked away before his expression could betray him. “Wasn’t a long list of successes.”

“Interesting. Neither was mine.” He inclined his glass towards Zira, waited for the bookseller to meet him in a toast to an evening that had not, in fact, turned into quite the disaster they had imagined it would.

“Ah.” Zira took a step away from him, nodding towards the crowd as Sammy came staggering back towards them, utter desolation visible on his face. “The valiant soldier returns.”

“How did it-”

Sammy held up a hand, both to silence Crowley and accept his glass of wine. “I don’t want to talk about it.”

“I did say aim high,” Crowley offered helpfully, patting his friend on the shoulder in commiseration.

“Literally.” Nose half-buried in his glass, Zira mumbled the word under his breath and the two of them dissolved into laughter, shoulder to shoulder as Sammy glared at them.

“Can you not be happy in front of me, please? I’m in mourning. Jesus, mate, I preferred you when you were miserable.”

***

“Will he be all right?” Zira asked, hovering awkwardly by the bar as he watched Crowley sling one of Sammy’s arms around his neck as he hastily ordered an Uber. Things had gone sharply downhill for Crowley’s friend, who had teetered from pleasantly tipsy to forlornly texting his ex in the space of two drinks. It had become apparent that the night was, most definitely, coming to a premature end.

“He’ll be fine. I'll have to hide his phone and he’ll wake up on my sofa with a hell of a hangover but he’ll live.” Crowley groaned with the effort of pulling Sammy to his feet, took the first of many shuddering steps towards the stairs that would spit them back out into Shoreditch. As they reached the first step he turned back, calling out words that, to Zira’s ears, sounded like pure magic. “Come on, angel, we can go via the shop.”

***

“Everything okay?” Crowley asked, leaning Sammy’s heavy body against the side of the car while Zira dithered on the kerb.

He couldn’t pinpoint what had filled him with so much dread, unease winding its way around his veins like fast-acting poison. It had risen up seemingly out of nowhere but it was unmistakeable, something intangible was crying out for him not to set foot in the taxi. “I don’t know…I just…I really don’t think I should get into that car.”

“I won’t be offended,” Crowley said gently, taking a step closer to him and lowering his voice until Sammy was out of earshot. “If you want to make your own way home, I mean.”

“Just being silly,” Zira whispered, more to himself than anybody else, shaking away the feeling as he slid across the backseat. As he stared out of the window he warned himself, apropos of nothing, to keep his hands firmly clasped in his lap.

Crowley had ducked down to sit next to him, had wanted to prolong the magnetism of that evening for as long as possible. His grand logistic plans, however, were scuppered by Sammy, who threw himself into the middle seat with all the elegance of a bear on a tightrope. Relegated to the only available seat, Crowley pulled the door closed and they left Shoreditch in their wake, bound for Soho and, regretfully, the end of a very successful night of speed dating, for two of them, at least.

“Crowley, I'm glad you were there tonight.”

At the sound of a soft voice murmuring his name, Crowley tore his attention away from the blur of lights that were passing by the window like neon fireflies. He found Sammy hunched over, snoring softly, his body held aloft only by the seatbelt that was strapped across his chest. And then there was only Zira glancing back at him, London’s reflection shining in his eyes and a smile on his lips that looked, for all the world, a lot like home.


	6. He Drives Me Crazy

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> He had to get out and he had to get out quickly. A stomach bug, perhaps? No, he would need longer to sow the seeds, might need to dampen his brow so it looked realistic. A fever? No, that wouldn't work either, curse this charming home and its perfectly-controlled interior temperature.

**October. The Shadwell House, London.**

“Good afternoon, my dear fellow. How are-” Zira stopped abruptly as, after a curt nod of welcome, Shadwell turned away from the door and stamped through the hallway, calling out to his wife as he went.

“The Southern Pansy is here!”

The nickname had been bestowed on him so long ago that Zira couldn’t remember a time when the vaguely offensive moniker hadn’t been bellowed out to signal his arrival at their monthly dinners together. Shadwell, or Sergeant Shadwell as those who preferred not to be on the receiving end of a lecture about his very honourable discharge from the army knew to call him, had always been confused by but tolerant of Zira’s presence in their home. It was much the same attitude he applied to his wife’s surprisingly lucrative career as a part time medium, part time astrologer. Zira frequently suspected Shadwell would prefer that their monthly dinners were reduced to quarterly but, then again, the bristly older man with the ineffable smorgasbord of an accent did gruffly press a bottle of whisky and a box of cigars into his arms each and every Christmas. Over the years the unsmoked cigars had amounted to quite the teetering stack of boxes in the back room of the bookshop.

“Oh, hello love. Early, as always.” Tracy popped her head out from the kitchen and Zira joined her in the little galley room, where the smell of tomatoes and basil clung to the air like a match made in heaven.

Zira leaned back against the worktop and watched the deep red sauce bubble away on the hob. “This smells delightful. Can I do anything to help?”

“You could lay the table if you want to save me a job.” Tracy smiled at him before turning her attention to the cavernous pot of pasta that was just on the cusp of boiling. Not needing to be told explicitly to get out of her hair while the last stages of dinner came together, Zira left her to it and pottered around in the dining room, arranging plates, cutlery, and glasses in the precise set up he had followed since the first dinner they’d shared all those years ago.

The dinners had been borne out of a compulsion for Tracy to know that Zira was getting at least one nutritious meal a month, or three or four if you counted the groaning bags of leftovers she would send him home with each time. It was more than that, though, an unspoken but understood need for her to take care of Zira in the way that she knew best: by spending one evening a month stuffing him to the gills with lovingly home-cooked food and maddeningly quizzing him about work, life, and love as if she was every inch part of his blood family.

It was only when he had popped into the living room to ask Shadwell whether he’d be drinking wine or whisky with dinner (“_Wine, I think, son_,” had come the absent-minded reply, before he’d remembered to keep up appearances and had followed it with an impatient finger wag in Zira’s direction. “_And mind ye don’t spill it_.”) that Zira realised how quiet it was in the house. It was almost eerie, the peaceful silence, no pitter pattering of little paws clicking against the tiled flooring, no yaps for attention when he’d arrived.

“Dogs are awfully quiet today,” Zira mused, hovering by the dining room table as Tracy entered, in search of a serving bowl.

“Oh, they’re with Anthony. He’s bringing them back with him tonight. Should be here any minute actually.”

Zira nodded, straightening a fork on the table. He stopped dead. Anthony. _Anthony. _“Anthony…Crowley?” he called out to her retreating back, voice coming out as a strangled bleat. 

“Yes, dear. Did I forget to mention he was joining us?” Tracy looked back, noticed the usual three place settings. “Dinner for four tonight. Be a lamb and lay another place, will you?”

That woman. That _wicked_ woman. Oh, she had _forgotten_ to mention it, had she? Zira was not a fool, knew well and good when he’d been ensnared. It had been almost a week since the speed dating _incident_ and he hadn’t heard hide nor hair from that lanky, devious scoundrel who had evidently put him under some sort of temporary curse that he had quickly broken free of. He might have woken up the next morning with a giddy grin on his face but that bubble had very much burst when the results of his speed dating matches had been diligently delivered to his overflowing e-mail inbox.

_Unfortunately you did not receive any mutual matches following last night’s Chat, Choose, Date event. You were selected as a match by six of your fellow daters, and their profiles are attached - if you would like to retrospectively match with any of these daters please reply with their match IDs._

_Thank you for choosing Chat, Choose, Date, and if you didn’t find true love last night, we hope to see you again at one of London’s most successful speed dating nights very soon!_

He had read the e-mail through three times as if reading it again and again might change the words on the screen. _You did not receive any mutual matches_. He had only selected one person as a match, _obviously_, so it was glaringly apparent that Crowley had not, in fact, selected him back.

Lips pressed together in humiliation, rage, and fury at himself for deciding the infernal hell of speed dating would _ever_ had led to anything other than utter disappointment, Zira had shut down his computer and pledged to never speak to Crowley again. At least, not until the meeting they had in the diary for ten days time, because he really was keen to see how the website was coming together. But that was _it_. No more cosy glasses of wine after hours, no more lingering stares across crowded rooms, and absolutely _no more_ daydreams about what it might be like to…_oh, for heaven’s sake, that was not going to help._

Back in the Shadwells’ dining room, Zira knew he had to act fast. There wasn’t a single possibility that he could weather the anguish of sitting opposite Crowley for an entire evening, particularly when he had known Tracy, his dear friend, for long enough to know that she would be unsubtly winking and coughing and _nudging_ before the first course was even served. He had to get out and he had to get out quickly. A stomach bug, perhaps? No, he would need longer to sow the seeds, might need to dampen his brow so it looked realistic. A fever? No, that wouldn't work either, curse this charming home and its perfectly-controlled interior temperature. A headache? If he committed to it there was a chance he could make his apologies and slip away before…

_Ding dong._

The chime of the doorbell rang out like a death knell. Zira’s blood turned to ice in his veins. He was here.

Shadwell clomped down the corridor, muttering under his breath about _that flash bastard_, and Zira took the opportunity to steal across the hallway and hide out in the kitchen. They would congregate in the dining room first to pour drinks, might not even notice he wasn’t there. If he played his cards right, he might not have to be alone with Crowley at all.

“My favourite jezebel not in then?” Crowley’s voice echoed down the corridor, teasing and light, cut through Zira as easily as a samurai sword through butter that had been left out in the sun for…however long it would take to become liquid with absolutely no resolve.

“You watch your mouth, laddie,” came Shadwell’s brusque reply before Zira heard a sound he had never experienced before. It was a laugh. And it had come from Shadwell. 

_Oh, yes_, Zira thought mutinously, as he paced back and forth across the narrow room, _isn’t he so funny? With his jokes and his tricks and his cheekbones._

A rush of energy tore through the house as the dogs tornadoed into the hallway before skittering into the kitchen and jumping up at Zira, their little legs scrabbling against his knees until he leaned down to greet them both. He stood back up just as Crowley came swaggering into the kitchen, sliding his sunglasses off and calling out to Tracy.

“Something smells good.” He sauntered past Zira to pour himself a glass of water, casually looking him up and down as he passed, dropping his voice as he uttered four words that transformed Zira from a man of steel to a man of not much solid substance at all. “Doesn’t look bad either.”

***

Crowley had a plate of avocado and smoked paprika bruschetta in front of him, just like everybody else at the table. _So why_, Zira asked himself, _is he staring at me as if he’s a starving animal and I’m some sort of…meal? That ship has sailed, my friend, crashed upon the rocks and split itself in twain._

“Something wrong with the food?” Zira asked primly.

Crowley laughed as if it was playful banter, took a big bite out of the bruschetta and fixed his eyes on Zira once again. “Tastes divine.”

“Thank you, love.” If Tracy had picked up on any tension she politely ignored it, turning her attention to Crowley with a smile that was so full of tender affection Zira felt a little flare of jealousy in his stomach. “Now, I hear the two of you have been making great strides with the website, spending a lot of time together, is that right?”

Zira opened his mouth to downplay the situation but Crowley got there first. “Oh, bucket loads, yes. Went on a little jaunt to Shoreditch last weekend, didn’t we, angel?”

“An _accidental_ jaunt,” Zira added, his words almost lost underneath the sound of Tracy clapping her hands together in delight. “Ghastly night, absolutely ghastly.”

“Ghastly.” Crowley repeated the word, leaning back in his chair and fixing Zira with a smile that really should have been outlawed.

Starters polished off, Tracy picked up the stack of empty plates and bustled into the kitchen to retrieve the next course, while Shadwell bolted for the living room after muttering vaguely about letting the dogs out. To Zira’s horror, the two of them were left very much alone.

“What’s wrong, angel?” Crowley uncoiled his arms from his lap, forearms coming to rest against the soft tablecloth as he leaned forwards. “You don’t seem pleased to see me.”

_Play it cool_, Zira told himself, _don’t let him get a rise out of you_. And then, a heartbeat later. “I cannot believe you didn’t tick my name! Stop laughing, this isn’t funny.”

“_That’s _why you’ve been avoiding me? I didn’t need to tick your name, I’ve already got your number. I took you back home afterwards like a real gentleman, didn’t I? Said goodnight at the door and everything.”

“That’s not the point and you know it!”

The mounting pressure in the room dissipated as Tracy came in, carrying a huge serving dish of pasta between two silicon oven gloves. “Don’t touch the bowl, whatever you do, far too hot to handle.”

Zira stared down at the empty bowl in front of him, waited until everybody else had served themselves before dolloping a weighty twirl of pasta in his bowl and digging in. It was delicious, as Tracy’s food always was, cooked with a combination of love and decades of experience. There was something missing, though, as if a layer he’d been expecting had been peeled back. _Oh, good lord, _he realised, stealing a glance in her direction and sighing laboriously, _she’s left out the garlic._ At least, he reasoned, if the astrology work ever dried up she could have a resounding career ahead of her in matchmaking. Garlic or no garlic, her attempt to facilitate…whatever it was she was hoping to facilitate was absolutely not going to happen. Not that night. Not the next night. Not ever.

“So,” he said, striking up what he hoped would be a lengthy, neutral conversation, “is everything ready for Wednesday night?”

When Tracy had suggested holding an event in the shop he hadn’t been a huge fan of the idea. All those _people_, all the preparation…the mere thought of it had left his mind clouding over as he began to compile a list of reasons why he would need to respectfully decline. She had kept on at him though, kept gently presenting it as a much-needed injection of attention that might just win him a few new customers.

“Think about it, love,” she had said, gesturing around the empty shop one afternoon. “You might think I’m just a stargazer but there are a lot more out there just like me and we all have _very_ lengthy reading lists. It’s only one night, why not give it a try? I’ll help you set up.”

He found it very difficult to deny Tracy anything at all she asked of him, not when she gave him one of those warm smiles chased with a squeeze of his arm. And so he had agreed. That following Wednesday, Z. Fell and Co. would be holding its very first Astrology Rising event. Tracy would be giving complimentary readings, she had roped in a couple of friends to set up birth chart and tarot tables, and the back room of Zira’s shop was a veritable labyrinth of boxes of books with titles like _The Twelve Houses_, _Written in the Stars: The Astrology of Love_, and _Lunar Journalling_.

“Oh yes, we can’t wait. You are dog-friendly in the shop, aren’t you? Only I found the perfect outfit for Gemini, haven’t I, love?” Tracy turned to Shadwell, who offered one long-suffering blink in response.

“Oh, well, not usually.” Zira paused, as Crowley leaned forward with an interested look on his face. Remembering the day Barnaby had made himself very much at home in front of the fireplace, he ignored Crowley’s piercing stare and nodded at Tracy. “I’d be very happy to have her there. Thrilled, in fact.”

“Are you coming, Anthony? It won’t be the same without you.”

Zira could feel Crowley’s eyes on him as he responded, voice irritatingly cheerful. “Tracy, I wouldn’t miss it for the world.”

As the main course came to an end, four humans leaned back and sighed happily, as is customary after polishing off a very delicious bowl of carbohydrates. Tracy stacked the dishes and disappeared into the kitchen, calling after her husband to bring through the bowl of leftovers.

Alone again, Crowley looked at Zira expectantly.

“You know what you did. You let me think you’d _chosen _me.”

“In my defence, I did tell you at the time my list of choices wasn’t very long.” As Crowley reached out for his hand, Zira snatched it back and sent a stray droplet of wine flying from a dislodged glass. The burgundy liquid soaked into the tablecloth and both parties stared down at the stain for a moment, before Crowley covered it discreetly with a coaster and continued. “Come on, aren’t we a little beyond that now, ticking each other’s name in a box?”

“Well, even if we were, you can forget about the entire thing now.”

“Forget what, angel?” Crowley sat back, one arm slung over the back of the chair as if he didn’t have a care in the world.

Zira narrowed his eyes as he took in his ridiculous _slouching_, desire swinging from wanting to throw the remaining wine in his glass all over his self-satisfied face, to balling his fist in the collar of his shirt and tugging him across the table to meet halfway in a kiss. In the end he chose neither option, let his mind build a neat little wall of protection that no dog walker could saunter through. “You know exactly what I’m talking about. From now on this is purely business, that’s all it is.”

Crowley took a long drink of wine before shrugging, as if he really didn’t care either way. “If you wanted it to be purely business you shouldn’t have shown up here looking like that.”

“Don’t you _dare_ try to sweet talk me. I am not falling for you again.”

Tracy took that moment to make a particularly poorly-timed entrance, carrying two bowls of tiramisu in her hands that she deposited in front of them, just as Crowley raised an eyebrow and mouthed one word across the table. “Again?”

Somewhere in the deep recesses of his brain, Zira heard the sound of a wall being unceremoniously torn down as quickly as it had been erected.

***

“You look at a little bit tired, sweetheart, are you sleeping enough?” Tracy reached out, touched the dark circle under Crowley's left eye. He didn’t even flinch, Zira noticed.

“Not a wink.” Crowley polished off his dessert with one more bite, then stifled a gaping yawn with the back of his hand as if to reinforce his point. “Sorry. Been a bit of a mad work week and I’ve been having…” He trailed off, glancing between the three of them as if he was deciding whether or not he was in safe enough company to finish the sentence. “I’ve been having the strangest dreams.”

Shadwell tutted into his glass, just as Tracy leaned forward onto both elbows, delight dancing in her eyes. “What sort of dreams? You know me, if I don’t know what they mean I can always get the book.”

Shadwell’s tut evolved into a fully-fledged groan, complete with supporting eye roll. He did, Zira thought, have a point. Tracy’s collection of hippy-dippy (as her doting husband liked to call it) books was unparalleled anywhere in London, mostly due to the fact Zira had managed to source her a number of titles that were exceedingly hard to come by. She would drop by the shop every so often with a long list, sending him on a quest to procure those books that were widely believed to be unprocurable.

When Crowley’s reply came his voice was neutral, almost sad, something that caught Zira off-guard. He found himself leaning in to hear, his irritation temporarily abandoned. It was the first time since their brief acquaintance had begun that Zira had seen any vulnerability in him. It suited him, softened him around the edges, transformed him from something unknowable to something more human, something you could reach out and take hold of.

“They’re just snatches. Trees. The stars. Sunlight streaming in through the window. Sometimes I hear waves against the sand, can feel…” he paused, looking down into his empty bowl. “I can feel a hand holding mine in the dark. Christmas lights reflected in a mirror. The ground trembling underneath my feet. Last night it was fire, I could feel it behind me, burning my back until I couldn’t stand it and then…” He stopped speaking then, shaking his head in confusion as if the memory was suddenly eluding him. He looked up to find the three of them fixated on him, drawn in by his words, unsure why they had been so unable to look away.

After a moment of silence the spell was broken and Tracy spoke, her voice as airy as if he’d told them he’d dreamed of cuddling a puppy. “Well, there’s a lot there to unpack, love. I’ll have to look at the book and let you know.”

***

“I’m sorry you’re not sleeping well,” Zira said, his words stilted as he scrubbed at a particularly stubborn piece of pasta that had welded itself to the bottom of the saucepan. Crowley had sent Tracy and Shadwell off to the living room after the meal was over, promising that he and Zira would take care of all of the tidying up.

“Thanks, angel. It’s like I told you before, sleep is…”

“A privilege afforded to the rich and the dead.” Zira finished the sentence, passing him the clean saucepan and picking up the first dirty plate from the towering stack next to him.

Crowley smiled. So he’d remembered their conversation, clung to the words until he could recall them perfectly. That had to mean something, didn’t it?

He reached out a hand and accepted the damp plate, wiping the drying up cloth over its surface in long arcs. There was something about washing and drying up he’d always found relaxing, a satisfaction in taking something tainted and wiping it clean, giving it a new lease of life.

“I like your shirt.” Zira’s voice came as a mumble, as if speaking the compliment aloud was a betrayal to an internal pledge he’d made. “It makes you look…fetching.”

He was forgiven then, at least partially. It had spectacularly backfired, his attempt at a joke, and until that evening he hadn’t realised quite how deeply it had offended the sweet-natured bookseller. He’d assumed Zira would call him up the moment the results came through and ask why in heaven’s name he hadn’t matched with him, had figured they would engage in some light bickering for a few moments before laughing about the whole, hilarious ordeal. Still, he’d called his shirt _fetching_, so he couldn’t be that cross.

Music drifted in from the kitchen a moment later, a sultry jazz beat that couldn’t help but fill the air with intention. It was impossible, Crowley had always thought, to hear music like that and not give a little piece of your heart to somebody who listened to it with you. A peal of laughter rang out from the living room and Crowley could picture the happy couple, arm in arm as they danced smoothly around the shabby rug that was rolled out in front of the fireplace. A testament to opposites attracting, that was how he had always thought of them, love taking root in the most unlikely of places.

The evening was almost over and Zira was feeling rather proud of how he’d managed to hold it together. He had forgiven Crowley, _sort of_, and had settled back into enjoying being by his side, even if he did spend every moment in his company wildly out of sorts. Just a few more dishes left to wash and he could make his goodbyes and disappear back to the shop. Perhaps when they saw each other next he wouldn’t feel quite so…disarmed.

“‘Scuse me, angel.”

Crowley’s voice was a gentle murmur next to his ear as he reached over to slide a clean glass back into the cupboard above the sink. Zira closed his eyes, far too aware of Crowley’s chest leaning against his shoulder, of the almost inebriating sensation of breathing in the scent of him, whisky and fire smoke, something that called back to midnight adventures lit by the moon. He stepped away then, and Zira could breathe again.

“One more.”

Zira felt a hand come to rest on his waist, as casually as if that was exactly where it belonged. He felt Crowley’s hips press against him as he stretched up to push a mug onto the top shelf, and Zira’s teeth sunk into his lip until the tang of iron bloomed on his tongue. He stared down into the dirty dishwater and hoped for a stray piece of pasta to brush against his finger and destroy the mood. “You can get those snake hips away from me immediately.”

Crowley laughed, dancing away. “The world won’t end, you know, if you take a risk once in a while.”

“I already took a risk and you turned it into a joke.” He had meant the words to come out lightly but, not for the first time that night, his mind had rebelled at the last minute.

“I’m sorry, I know I went too far with that. Let me make it up to you.”

Zira turned to him then, washing up gloves shrugged off and folded neatly on the edge of the sink. “There’s nothing to make up to me. Just don’t…don’t let me go somewhere if you don’t plan on following me.”

“Oh, you know me, angel. I’d follow you anywhere. All you need to do is ask.” His smile was back, as was that cocky, irresistible slouch. _Well_, Zira thought, _perhaps two can play your game._

“In that case…” The bookseller trailed off, turned to face him. Crowley straightened up, forever hopeful. “Why don’t you _follow me_ into the dining room and get the rest of the plates? They won’t carry themselves, you know.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hi all, thank you for all your lovely comments on the last few chapters - I'm so glad you're enjoying Part II so far and your support is always very much appreciated <3.
> 
> Next chapter is coming on Thursday!
> 
> Also, I posted the first of the short stories yesterday - first up is The Quiet Rebellion of Raphael Morningstar and you can read the first part [here](https://archiveofourown.org/works/20401738/chapters/48391339).


	7. Sky Full of Stars

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “Flowers,” he murmured, holding a lily by its stem and waving it like a magic wand before he deposited it in the vase. “From our mutual friend.”

**October. Z. Fell and Co., Soho.**

“Lift that Pisces a bit higher, love.”

Zira closed his eyes in frustration, opened them to find that the scene in front of him hadn’t changed. He was still halfway up a ladder taping foil cutouts of astrological signs to the bookshelves. Behind him, the shop had been transformed into an otherworldly cave of wonders, with tarot-themed cupcakes spread out on platters and soft velvet scatter cushions nestled against the walls ready for birth chart readings, while the shelves were groaning with the weighty titles Tracy had promised were going to fly out of the shop like hotcakes. Somewhere in the vicinity, Tracy’s little bichon frise, Gemini, was dressed in a very charming star costume, five yellow points standing to attention in a halo around her midriff.

“Which one is Pisces?” Zira asked, trying to keep his tone light. The event was due to start in less than an hour and he still had no idea what the difference between Cancer and Capricorn was, what exactly it meant that he was a Taurus moon, and why in the world he needed to exercise self-control with Mercury swiftly approaching retrograde.

“Next to Virgo,” Tracy said helpfully from her handy ground-level vantage point, voice thick on account of the cupcake she had just bitten into.

Zira tutted down at the glaring empty space on one of the cupcake platters that had taken him far longer to arrange than he cared to admit. “_Those_ are for guests and I have absolutely no idea what Virgo looks like.”

“Well, you should do, dear. It is your sign after all.”

“I thought I was a Libra.”

“That’s your rising sign, I’m talking about your sun.”

“For heaven’s sake,” he hissed under his breath, grabbing for the closest symbol and raising it by two inches. He looked down at her for approval.

She shrugged, swallowing the last half of the cupcake. “That was Aries but I won’t quibble.”

***

The event was in full flow and, Zira had to admit it, Tracy had delivered on her promise of a wildly successful night. He had had to disappear into the back room to replenish stock twice since the event had started and the shop had never contained so many bodies at once. While he had given both the birth chart and tarot readings a wide berth, he had slid numerous books into Z. Fell and Co. tote bags (a stroke of genius dreamed up in Crowley’s brain when they were working on branding for the website) and had taken note of a number of requests for out of print titles. With the website launch on the horizon and his resolve against a few more Astrology Rising nights weakening, the bookshop would be back on its feet in no time. 

“And I have you to thank, my good woman,” Zira said aloud, grabbing for Tracy’s hand as she leaned past him to snaffle another cupcake. He dropped his voice then, didn’t want anybody to overhear a rare outpouring of emotion. “Thank you for this, really, for looking out for me. I know I can be difficult.”

“You, my sweet little naysayer, are very welcome.” Tracy smiled, pinching one of his cheeks between her thumb and index finger. For once, he didn’t fight his way free. “Maybe we should make this a weekly thing.”

“Let’s not go mad now.” He laughed, and then his stomach twisted in excitement and apprehension as the shop door swung open and Crowley sauntered in, one hand in his pocket, the other clutching a neatly wrapped bouquet.

For somebody who had carefully carved out a life of structure and predictability, he was growing extremely fond of the rush he felt whenever he found himself in the same space as Crowley. No two stretches of time they had spent together had ever been the same, and there was something more than alluring in the idea of letting himself be drawn in by somebody so utterly carefree and comfortable in his own skin.

Spotting Crowley a moment after Zira had, Tracy gave him a look that carried the weight of a hundred conversations in it, and disappeared without a word, leaving Zira dithering by a display of astrological compatibility books as Crowley stood in the doorway, scanning the room until he found what he was looking for. His face relaxed into a smile and he meandered over, brandishing the flowers almost shyly.

“Business is booming then?” he asked by way of introduction, leaning close and sliding one hand slowly up ZIra’s back until it came to rest between his shoulder blades.

_That’s new, _Zira thought, leaning into the hug. He smiled up at him, hoping he didn’t look quite as giddily happy as he felt. “Thank you for coming.” And then, because he’d drunk two glasses of wine to be able to endure a night of smalltalk with strangers and was feeling extraordinary brave, “you look very nice.”

“What did I say about going overboard with the compliments? I won’t be able to help myself if you keep this up.” Crowley looked down then, remembering the flowers he was holding. “These are for you. Congratulations on tonight, angel. Not such a harrowing ordeal in the end, was it?”

“Oh…Crowley, thank you.” Zira reached out to take the flowers, eyes flicking from the bouquet to Crowley as he wondered whether a second hug was on the cards. _Better not_, he decided, _I might swoon where I stand and never want to let go_. “I, er, I better go and put these in some water.”

***

Zira could have left the bouquet standing in a sink of water until the night was over but he found the process of preparing the flowers relaxing, and the quiet moment was just what he needed before he faced the mayhem of the shop floor again. While he was delighted that the shop was heaving and orders were coming in thick and fast, he needed a minute to himself to work through exactly what had just happened.

Flowers. He had given him flowers. Beautiful ones. Clusters of lilies nestled amongst dense green foliage and pretty sprays of baby’s breath. Intentional flowers, one might say if they were feeling particularly romantic, rather than your standard platonic bouquet. _Stop, _he warned himself, _don’t go falling for him. Again. He’s just charming. Too charming, in fact. Indecent, really, to be that easy on the eye. No, stop. Just arrange the flowers like a good bookseller. Honestly, what’s gotten into you? You’re supposed to be selling books tonight, not thinking about…fraternising._

“What are you doing hiding back here?” Tracy interrupted his troubling train of thought, ducking under a banner of crescent moons as she joined him in the back room, rifling through a box of books until she found the titles she was looking for.

“Flowers,” he murmured, holding a lily by its stem and waving it like a magic wand before he deposited it in the vase. “From our mutual friend.”

“It’s going well then, with Anthony?”

Zira paused, weighing up his response before he spoke. It wasn’t an easy question to answer, mostly because he didn’t have any idea how _it _was going, or what it even was. Perhaps it didn’t need a label. Perhaps, as Crowley had said at dinner last week, they were beyond ticking each other’s name in a box. Where did that put them then, Zira wondered, friends, probably, or had they begun to tiptoe past that and into unexplored territory? There had been that moment in the kitchen after dinner at the Shadwells’, the weight of Crowley’s hips rolling into him, that brief moment of contact that Zira had relived more times than was probably healthy. Whatever they were, and whatever they might or might not be, the only thing Zira was sure of was that he was happy. The type of happy that gave him a little buzz of elation whenever he stayed still for long enough to let it settle over him.

“Oh, yes. He’s very…he’s a bit of a fixture here now.”

Tracy smiled, as if Zira had walked into a trap he didn’t know had been set. “I meant with the website, dear.”

“Ah, of course.” He dropped his gaze, turned his attention back to the flowers so he didn’t have to suffer one of Tracy’s extremely self-satisfied smiles.

“Hard not to enjoy his company, I imagine,” she said lightly. Suspiciously so. “He is a charmer.”

Zira dropped the scissors in his hand with a clatter, leaned across the table towards Tracy, realising that she was the only mutual link between them, the only person who had any real insight into the mysteries that lay beyond the surface Zira had barely begun to scratch. “Yes, he is that. He’s so upbeat, has this huge world around him, but…he seems so sad sometimes. It’s as if I can sense it in him when he forgets to hide it.”

There was a swirling ocean beneath that happy-go-lucky exterior, he knew it, and he fully intended to discover what lay in the depths hidden from the rest of the world. Perhaps Tracy, who had been caring for Crowley like a parent for almost as long as she’d been clucking around Zira like his very own mother hen, would be able to offer some pearls of wisdom.

“It’s his Scorpio moon, love, he has melancholy in his soul.”

“Right. Of course.”

***

It was very sweet of Crowley, Zira had thought, to come to the shop that night given that he had absolutely no interest in the topic at hand. Star signs, astrology…it just didn’t seem as though it would be part of his wheelhouse, which was why Zira was so utterly taken aback when he bustled out of the back room to find him darting from table to table with a grin on his face that suggested he was having the time of his life.

“Look!” he cried, catching sight of Zira and bounding up to him, cupcake in one hand as he brandished the opposite forearm in the air. He nodded down to the large tarot card that appeared to be etched into his skin.

Jaw dropping in horror, Zira grabbed his wrist and ran one hand over his skin, finding it as smooth as if the mark had been there forever. “Did you…is that a…? I did _not _authorise a _tattooist_.”

“Only until I shower next, angel, calm down.” Crowley rolled his eyes, held his arm still so Zira could admire the, admittedly shaky, handiwork of the temporary tattoo. It was a sinister thing, filled Zira with an unease that crept up out of nowhere, like fingers curling around the back of his neck. Black and white, a half-opened coffin with a grinning skeleton inside. Underneath was a single word: Death.

“Death?” Zira asked, running a finger across the word. “Not very…cheery.”

“Well, they tried the Devil first but it just wouldn’t take. Kept sliding right off like…whatever water slides off.” Crowley shrugged, swallowing the rest of the cupcake. “Death is meant to be good, apparently. Letting go of the past, new beginnings, all of that.”

“New beginnings,” Zira murmured thoughtfully. He might not believe in what was written in the stars but, he had to admit, that did sound pretty on the money. Purely a coincidence of course, but an interesting one.

“Crowley!” A voice called across the room, Zira followed it to find a middle-aged lady with wisps of lilac hair framing her face waving animatedly at Crowley as if they were old friends. “I’ve got a slot for you now, dear.”

“Oh, must dash, angel. I’m getting my fortune read by Shirley. I’ll report back later, I know how much you love all this.”

Zira watched him go, tried to bite back a smile that was equal parts amusement and affection. As Crowley sat down, Shirley leaned in and whispered something that led him to throw his head back in laughter, the two of them settling into gossip as if they were old friends. How did he do it, Zira wondered, how did he walk into a room of strangers and have them wrapped around his finger within seconds? It was something intangible, a force that radiated out from him. Zira had felt it that night in the bar those months ago, had felt it every time he’d seen him since. It was hard to look away from him, as if you couldn’t help but want to be pulled into his orbit, and all the chaos it held within it.

“Close your mouth, darling, you’re one sigh away from drooling.”

Zira casually wiped his mouth on his sleeve, turned around to give Raphael a good hard glare, having only just about forgiven him from the Great Speed Dating Abandonment. “I _wasn’t_ sighing. When did you get here anyway?”

“Long enough ago to see you getting dewy-eyed over the mystery man in the corner.” Raphael leaned back against a display of books and fixed a pleasant expression on his face as he watched Zira try and fail to keep his composure. It wasn’t fair to tease but watching Zira out of his depth was too great a joy to resist all the time.

“Get yourself a drink and…stay out of trouble.” Zira shooed him away towards the drinks table, watched his friend leave and tried to swallow the guilty smile on his face. He had been well and truly rumbled.

***

_Your life line, the way it branches off here, it’s…have you been in an accident lately?_ Crowley mused over the results of his palmistry reading as he flicked through one of the books behind Zira’s desk. He hadn’t been in an accident lately, which had garnered an interesting look from the palm reader as they’d pursed their lips doubtfully before turning their attention to his Girdle of Venus, which was not a sentence he thought he would ever hear spoken aloud. Still, Crowley was never one to shy away from broadening his horizons. Plus, it had been worth the visit just to see the look on Zira’s face when he’d arrived. It was, he had decided, something he could never tire of, that unspoken mutual relief of _thank god you’re here_.

“Just this one, please.”

A voice pulled Crowley out of his daydream and he looked up to find a young lady pushing a book across the desk.

“Ah,” he said, looking around desperately for Zira. He found him over in the opposite corner of the shop, Gemini cradled in one arm as he spoke with a group of customers. “Sure. One…one moment.”

He’d seen Zira serve customers a handful of times before, knew that the cash register could get temperamental but a good, firm whack against its left side could usually solve the problem. There was a brief moment of terror when the card machine failed not once but twice but then one more happy customer was skipping out of the shop with a birth chart in one hand and a Z. Fell and Co. tote bag in the other. _You owe me, angel,_ he thought with a smile, as he watched Zira at work, _might start taking commission if you’re not careful_.

It was a thrill to spend the night existing in Zira’s world for once. The time they had spent together had been largely confined to the back room of the shop, Crowley working away on the website and holding his laptop up every half an hour for a progress check. Zira was always happy with what he was doing, seemed content to let him do whatever he thought was best and dish out praise as and when required. Getting a _personal_ compliment might be akin to getting blood out of a stone but when it came to his work? That was a different matter. _It’s beautiful, Crowley, _he would say, _a thing of wonder, I don’t know how you do it_. It was a run of the mill contact form that had garnered such a rapturous response, and Crowley had secretly dared to hope that Zira’s over the top appreciation for his work was a loophole of sorts, a way for him to dispense compliments under the guise of it being strictly business.

“So…Zira’s found himself an extra pair of hands, has he?” A very dashing older man with a swoop of greying hair brushed back from his forehead rested both hands against the edge of the desk, beaming at Crowley as if they were old friends.

Sensing that this was about to be a very interesting conversation, Crowley opened his mouth to respond but a quiet screech cut through the shop before he could utter a word.

“_No!_” Zira hurtled over to them, hauling the man back by the collar of his shirt as if he was a dog straying too close to a riverbank.

“And why not?” The man asked, glancing wickedly from Zira to Crowley.

Crowley, revelling in the exquisite awkwardness etched across Zira’s face, slowly leaned forward across the cash desk and gave him his most innocent wide-eyed look. “Yes, angel, why not?”

Zira opened his mouth. Then he closed his mouth. Then he shook his head and closed his eyes as if he wanted very much to teleport into another dimension. Eventually, Crowley took pity on him.

“Crowley,” he said, extending a hand towards the man, who shook it with a firm hand.

“Raphael.” A heartbeat later he nodded slowly, understanding dawning on him. “_You’re _the web designer? Oh, I’ve heard an awful lot about you, darling.”

“Oh?” Crowley cocked an eyebrow, looking at Zira with interest. The bookseller stared back, powerless to do anything other than let his cheeks bloom with a rosy pink flush. At that precise moment, to Raphael’s delight and Zira’s unadulterated horror, a customer called his name and waved him over.

“Come on, let’s get a drink, something tells me we have a lot to catch up on.” Happily ignoring the warning glare that Zira fired towards his retreating back, Raphael linked arms with Crowley and the two of them made off towards the nearest tray of drinks as if they were about to indulge in very salacious gossip indeed.

***

“We’ll just keep these in the back, shall we, love?” Tracy asked, folding up the last of the moon phase banners and running a strip of tape over the top of the box to seal it. “For next time?”

“Yes,” Zira said with a sigh, though he broke into a smile when he caught her eye. “For _next_ time, I suppose. It did go rather well tonight.”

The event had finished an hour ago and the shop was almost back to its usual state. Zira was stacking the few unsold books back into their respective boxes, Crowley was sweeping cupcake crumbs into a neat pile in the middle of the floor, and Raphael was leaning against a bookshelf helpfully finishing off the leftover wine.

As he swept the floor, taking the opportunity to clean the long-neglected corners of the shop as he went, Crowley felt a flare of warmth spread through his chest as he thought about what that night had meant. Even if Zira hadn’t caught it, he had, had always been sensitive to the quiet ways loved manifested itself. He had people in his corner, even if he didn’t know it. Tracy had pushed him unceremoniously into the heart of a brand new community, whether he wanted to be in it or not, and, for all of his nonchalance, Crowley had seen Raphael hand-sell not four but five copies of _Love in the Stars_, a particularly weighty book that came with an equally hefty price tag.

“You know, Zira,” he said, leaning against the handle of the broom. “I really think this marks the turning point for the shop.”

Zira turned to him then, and the smile on his lips was full of simple happiness. “I think you might be right. And while I've got you all here: Tracy, thank you for tonight. Crowley, I know how hard you’ve been working on the website, thank you. And Raphael…”

Raphael looked up expectantly, as he upended the last dregs of a bottle into his wine glass. “Yes, darling?”

“Thank you for…”

“…For?” Raphael smiled sweetly. There was a pause, as Zira scrabbled for an answer. “How about for the open invitation to make yourself at home in the spare room if everything goes to pot? Our door is always open, you know that. Except for this weekend when it’s our anniversary. Or at the end of the month when we’re in Italy for the wine festival. And…”

“Yes, yes, your door is _always_ open, as long as Italy isn’t calling. Go on, finish your stolen wine and give me some peace, you’ll bleed me dry if you’re here another minute, you wretched man.”

***

“Well, that was a raging success, wasn’t it?” Crowley shuffled a stack of ten pound notes against his thigh and passed them to Zira, who bound them with an elastic band and slid them into the open cash register.

The two of them sat side by side on top of the cash desk, legs swinging to and fro as they worked their way through the evening's takings, Crowley counting them up and Zira diligently jotting down the totals in his dog-eared cash book. Crowley had sighed when the bookseller had dug out the little book, had made a mental note to introduce him to the heady world of online cashflow maintenance as soon as he got the opportunity.

“Who knew there was so much money in false promises and claptrap?” Zira laughed to himself, steadfast in his beliefs that there was absolutely nothing in it, nothing in the stars, nothing pre-determined about his fate. There wasn’t a medium or a tarot reader in the world that could convince him that there was a single jot of truth in any of the...

Crowley shrugged, passing him the next stack of notes and letting his index finger brush against Zira’s so gently it might have been a dream, a feather against his skin that was gone before he'd even finishing registering its presence. He looked up then, and as their eyes met Zira felt another stitch in his metaphorical suit of armour come undone.

“Oh, I don’t know if it’s all claptrap. Shirley did tell me I was going to meet an angel.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Next chapter is coming Saturday, my friends <3
> 
> P.S. If anyone wants me to WAX LYRICAL about the meticulous birth charts I did for Crowley + Zira just let me know - I will happily ramble about it ALL DAY.


	8. (Be My) Once in a Lifetime

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “I’m a dog walker, and a web developer, and a guitarist, sort of. I’m not a plumber, angel.”

**October. Crowley’s Flat, London.**

“Barnaby, get down.”

Barnaby did not get down. Crowley sighed, burying his hand in the soft ruff of black fur that billowed out from the dog’s neck. He should be stricter, he knew that, but it was difficult to tell Barnaby to do anything when he rested his head on your knee and looked up at you as if sending him away would tear his heart in two.

“It’s just me and you tonight, boy.” Crowley kicked off his shoes and swung his legs up onto the edge of the coffee table, crossing his ankles as he sank back into the sofa and closed his eyes, revelling in the glorious feeling of having absolutely nothing to do.

It wasn’t often that Crowley was happy to have a long evening of uninterrupted stillness ahead of him but it had been an exhausting week and that night he planned to do nothing other than watch mind-numbing television and ignore the fact that Barnaby wasn’t supposed to be on the sofa.

_Bzzzt_

His phone vibrated, skittering across the surface of the coffee table with a deep buzz.

Crowley looked at Barnaby. Barnaby looked back.

“I should ignore that, shouldn’t I?”

He knew what would happen if he picked up. Somebody would invite him out for a _quiet_ drink and he would barrel back into the flat at three in the morning with a polystyrene box of chips in one hand and an extremely light wallet in the other. No. He was going to be sensible. He let the phone ring out.

_Bzzzt_

He hadn’t even flicked through three channels on the TV before it rang again.

“For god’s sake,” he hissed, picking up the phone to cancel the call. “I am having a quiet night in and there’s nothing you can tempt me…” He trailed off, eyebrows raising into his hairline when he spotted the name of the caller on the screen. In his haste to answer the call he almost dropped the phone, managed to pant one word into the phone as he picked up. “Zira?”

“Oh, Crowley, hello.” Zira’s voice crackled to life through the phone. He sounded surprised, as if he hadn’t been the one to initiate the call. “Are you having a good evening?”

Crowley closed his eyes, steadied himself to at least pretend to be weighing up his options when Zira invited him out. That was what he was going to ask, wasn’t it? You don’t just call people at half nine on a Friday night if you’re not going to ask them out, right?

“Just a quiet one,” Crowley said casually, one hand absent-mindedly stroking Barnaby’s ear that was flopped across his lap. “No plans. No plans at all. Why are you-”

“There’s been a leak. A burst pipe or…something, I don’t know. Bit of a nightmare, if I’m honest. I’m almost under water here.” He followed his words with a little laugh that was utterly devoid of joy.

“Are the books okay?” Crowley asked, sitting forward. He couldn’t imagine Zira being quite so coherent if anything had happened to the books. Insurance wasn’t going to help replace the priceless titles he had on his shelves.

“Yes. Yes, the books are fine, thank you for asking. The shop is fine, it’s the, er, living space that’s a little worse for wear. I’ve switched the water off but it’s…”

“Have you called a plumber?”

“Yes, of course I have,” Zira huffed, and Crowley could hear something in the background that sounded a lot like feet sloshing about in water. “Nobody can come until tomorrow. It’d be a miracle to get same day service in London.”

“And so you called me. I’m a dog walker, and a web developer, and a guitarist, sort of. I’m not a plumber, angel.” It wasn’t funny, he knew that, but there was something about the visual of Zira whining about paperwork as he waded through puddles that left Crowley biting back a smile.

It should have been impossible to _hear_ somebody rolling their eyes, but Crowley could sense it through the phone all the same. “Yes, I _know_ that. I thought, maybe…”

“Raphael’s open door policy not tempting you?” Crowley leaned back into the sofa cushions, let his eyes drift closed as he listened to what was quickly becoming one of his favourite sounds in the world: Zira dithering. “Right, wedding anniversary. He told us on Wednesday.”

“Oh, that. Yes. Of course.” He paused, let the words unsaid hang in the air before he tutted them away. “Look, I know I shouldn’t have called this late.”

“It’s half past nine. On a Friday.”

“Did I wake you up? Oh, Crowley, I shouldn’t have bothered you.”

Crowley laughed to himself, felt a surge of affection at the idea of Zira considering half past nine on a Friday so late he might be in bed. Either way, his quiet night in was about to become anything but and he couldn’t be happier about it. “Give me twenty minutes, I’ll pick you up.”

***

From the outside the shop looked much the same as it had every other time Crowley had visited. Same dusty windows, same inexplicable opening hours sign hanging on the door, same welcoming feeling of familiarity when he pulled up outside. Inside, though, was a different matter.

The shop was relatively unharmed, which was a small mercy, but the back room and the upper floor were a mess. Residual water was dripping through the ceiling, leaving everything in the back room dampened by brown droplets that were being greedily soaked up by the floorboards. _I bet they’re original_, Crowley thought sadly. In the middle of it all, pyjama trousers rolled up to his knees, stood Zira, looking very much like a lost puppy.

“I don’t know how it happened,” he said plaintively, gesturing wildly around at the chaos. “I was just about to run a bath and then…_this_.”

“Pack a bag and turn the electricity off, you can stay at my place tonight.” Crowley stood on the periphery of the shop floor, leaning into the back room to survey the damage. Zira turned in a small circle, slippered feet sending little rivulets of water cascading out in muddy ripples. “Go on,” he said gently, and there was something in his voice that pulled Zira out of his panic. He nodded once, twice in quick succession, clambered up the stairs and reappeared a few moments later with a battered leather overnight bag slung over one arm.

_He didn’t have anyone to call_. Crowley looked across at Zira’s face, pinched with stress, the way he kept tightly swallowing as he picked up stacks of papers and slid them into his bag. _Or he did, and he chose me. He could have called Tracy, would have been tucked up with a hot drink in their spare room by now. But he didn’t call her, he called me_. Crowley looked at him again. One trouser leg had come untucked, was slowly working its way down his calf as he traipsed through the ankle-deep puddles of water. He wanted to step into the room, to kneel down and roll it back up for him.

“It’ll be okay,” he murmured, smiling encouragingly as Zira turned to him. The bookseller gave him a little nod, attempted a small smile that didn’t quite come to fruition, and then heaved the overnight bag back up onto his arm.

“I think that’s everything.” Zira gave the room one backwards glance, eyes roving over the cluttered surfaces in search of any irreplaceable paperwork he might have missed. Seemingly satisfied, he stepped past Crowley onto the shop floor.

“At least the water’s stopped.” Crowley shrugged, then swung the internal door between the back room and the shop closed and pulled a couple of empty cardboard boxes in front of it. Zira gave him a puzzled look, then the faintest traces of a smile appeared on his lips. “Don’t look at me like that, it might stop it spreading.”

“I did read somewhere that the Great Flood was almost foiled by a cardboard box.” This time when Zira smiled, it reached all the way to his eyes.

***

“Crowley! Slow _down_.” Zira gripped onto the dashboard with one hand, the other braced against the roof of the car as if they might take off at any moment. He risked letting go of the dashboard to stab a finger at the speedometer. “Crowley, you _can’t_ do ninety miles per hour in Central London.”

“Relax, angel. We’re barely doing forty.” From behind the wheel, Crowley looked across at him as easily as if they were pottering down a country lane on a Sunday afternoon jaunt. He smiled, then turned his attention back to the road, and Zira quietly let his heart hammer away in his chest as strongly it had been since Crowley had offered him a place to stay.

***

“I, er, it’s not much,” Crowley said, eyes down as he unlocked the door to the flat and pushed it open for Zira to step through. He’d been in such a rush to get to the shop as soon as Zira had called that neatening up the small space hadn’t been on his radar. Still, there were merits to his _tidy desk, tidy mind_ working habits and, while it wasn’t gleaming, it wasn’t too far gone either.

It had been mercifully quiet in the car park when they’d arrived, no Friday night gatherings in the basement floor of the garage as there often were. They meant no harm, just kids looking for something to do on an otherwise uninspiring night, would raise a hand to greet Crowley if their paths crossed on his way back from a gig. Still, Zira’s comfort zone was narrower than his, he’d picked up on that from the beginning.

He was proud of his little flat, always had been. It wasn’t easy, living alone in the city, managing to build a life that married the need for independent living with the mounting bills that life liked to drum up. Compared to the bookshop, though, that tastefully decorated interior that seemed to stretch from room to room like a wood-panelled labyrinth, heavy tomes that could easily fetch a week’s rent littering every available surface, his flat seemed a kitten in the presence of a lion. Still cute, still perfectly fine, but _less than_ in some way. He shook his head, forced away feelings of inadequacy before they could settle.

A flash of black shot through the living room as they stepped inside, Barnaby hotfooting it off the sofa and hoping Crowley hadn’t noticed he’d made himself very comfortable during his absence. The dog padded towards them, tips of his paws stretching up towards Zira’s chest as he leaned against him for some much overdue attention from the bookseller.

“Hello, boy.” Zira ruffled him behind one ear and Barnaby closed his eyes, relishing the touch. He sank back down to the ground eventually, trotted over to his bed and turned in two tight circles before laying down, eyes flicking subtly towards the tin of treats on the sideboard.

Zira hovered in the doorway for a moment, looked around at his first sight of Crowley’s home. He could sense the way Crowley fit into this space, could imagine his long legs stretched out on the edge of the corner sofa as he tapped away on his laptop, head bent low towards the screen, could see him making the trip from plant pot to plant pot each day, silver watering can in hand as he gave each of the plants on the windowsill a drink. A blanket was slung over the back of the sofa, bills filed neatly into a letter tray on the opposite wall, and his guitar leaned against the sideboard below the window, the cable connecting it to the amp coiled thickly like a black snake. It was a place that felt full, there was a history here; it was a little tired but that was okay. This was a space where somebody lived, rather than merely existed.

“This is lovely, Crowley.” Zira stepped further inside, caught the whiff of amber and leather, something dark and warming, Crowley’s scent echoing around the place as if it was woven into the walls themselves. “It’s very…tidy.”

Crowley laughed at that, took Zira’s bag and closed the door behind him, twisting the lock until it clicked into place. It filled Zira with relief, that sound, as if that single motion had locked the rest of the world out, leaving them safe together, alone at last. “What did you expect, angel? I’m not an animal.”

“Oh, no, I didn’t mean… I just thought it might be more _gothic_.” Zira hadn’t really known what to expect, if he was honest. He felt a pang of shame when he realised he hadn’t given much thought to Crowley’s life outside of their interactions, besides curiosity about what kept him so busy all the time.

“Gothic?” Crowley leaned back against the doorframe that led into the kitchen, smiled at him as he folded his arms across his chest. “Do elaborate.”

Zira pursed his lips, beginning to understand when he was being teased. He flung out a hand, waved in the direction of Crowley’s black jeans. “You wear a lot of black.”

“It’s slimming,” he laughed, peeling his narrow frame away from the door and sauntering to the fridge. He pulled the door open and appraised the contents, before digging his phone out of his pocket. “Seems like a takeaway kind of an evening, doesn’t it?”

***

“Barnaby, get up.”

Barnaby did not get up. He eyed Crowley with suspicion, trying to uncover the trick he was sure was being laid in front of him.

“Go on.” Crowley patted the sofa temptingly, dropped his voice as he heard the sound of a running shower fizzle away into silence. There was the squeak of a foot against a wet bath tub, and Crowley nodded his head towards the sofa cushions. Curiosity well and truly piqued and never one to argue with a free pass to break the rules, Barnaby hopped up onto the far end of the sofa and sat up, tail wagging.

“Lay down.” Crowley lowered his hand, one finger held aloft, and Barnaby dropped down onto all fours before rolling onto his side and stretching out happily until he was sprawled across enough of the sofa space that Crowley gave him an approving nod. As the bathroom door was unlocked, Crowley silently pledged to give him an extra treat for being the perfect canine wingman. “Good boy.”

Zira came bustling out of the bathroom then, met Crowley’s eyes for a moment before he looked away with a smile that was tinged with embarrassment. His hair was still damp, white blond curls clinging to his forehead, a few stray spirals flaring up as they dried. There was a droplet of water on his neck, shining like a diamond above his collarbone. Crowley looked down, ran his tongue along the roof of his mouth and exhaled slowly. _Don’t_, he warned himself, _that is not what this is. This is a friend helping a friend out. However much that friend might like to help his friend into bed. Get a grip, for god’s sake._

“You changed,” Zira said, nodding down to Crowley’s carefully curated _platonic-in-name-only _ensemble of grey sweatpants and a faded old band t-shirt.

“Thought I’d dial back on the _gothic_.” He smirked, would be lying if he said he didn’t enjoy the way he caught sight of Zira’s tongue pressing against the back of his teeth as he smiled back. “Food’s on the way.”

Zira raised an eyebrow, tossed a cream tartan washbag down into the overnight bag that was tucked neatly against the edge of the sofa. “Oh, chips, is it?”

“I do eat other things. Sometimes. Sit down, you’re making me nervous, hovering like a…something that hovers.” He gestured towards the sofa, fixed a look of abject shock on his face as he stared down at Barnaby. “Come on, Barnaby, you’re not meant to be on the sofa. Barely any space left for the two of us.”

“Oh, don’t.” Zira shook his head, looking sweetly down at the big black dog who stared up at them as if he was extremely tired of enduring this charade. “Leave him, I'm sure we can squeeze in.”

_I could sit here until the sun comes up and it still wouldn’t be enough time_, Zira thought, blinking slowly as he focused on nothing other than the length of Crowley’s thigh pressed tightly against his. He had his laptop resting across their knees, was clicking through a demo of the website as he showed Zira his latest progress.

“Before you ask, yes, I’ve added those extra filters you asked for. See, you can cross-reference your stock.” Crowley clicked on various buttons and sat back as the dummy book titles he’d catalogued on the site rearranged themselves in a smooth flourish. Zira nodded happily, spent most of his time nodding happily when Crowley was showing him the website, if he was honest. It was a brand new world, _online_, and he was content for Crowley to take him by the hand and guide him through it.

There was something about seeing Crowley at home that was even more disarming than seeing him prowl around in public, heads turning in his wake, whether he noticed them or not. It was just the two of them huddled around the laptop screen, Barnaby sleeping next to them, a takeaway imminent. It felt so refreshingly uncomplicated, so…_normal_. Zira had spent a long time shying away from normal, had preferred to retreat to the fringes of acceptability, to tether himself to the outdated, to exist in the familiar spaces where he felt safest.

“It all links in, see? You take a payment in the shop or through the website and it’s all logged here. Digital. Not beholden to the mercy of flood water.” Crowley laughed as Zira tutted at him. Too soon, perhaps. After all, it was a possibility that the shop might be underwater when they returned the next morning, if his valiant heroics with the cardboard dam hadn’t saved the day.

“Rather complicated, isn’t it, all this?” Zira leaned in to get a closer look, brain close to short-circuiting as he looked at the online dashboard that was nothing but an intimidating haze of options and buttons. Next to him, Crowley’s brain was also close to short-circuiting, mostly due to the face Zira’s cheek was hovering so close to his they were a hair’s breadth from touching.

_Get. A. Grip. Let the poor man look at the screen without pouncing on him, you absolute heathen. His living space is in disarray, he’s here for a place to stay before he trudges back in the morning to deal with the horror of home insurance bureaucracy, not to…fraternise. Yes, he smells like heaven incarnate, yes, his hair would look spectacular gripped between your fingers, yes, yes, he knows well and good what he’s doing with all the thigh pressing but you have no business letting your mind wander to places you can’t tear it back from._

The intercom crackled to life, mercifully, gave Crowley something to do other than sit on the sofa and silently swoon. He snapped the laptop closed and slid it into one of the coffee table’s drawers where it would lay forgotten until the next day, buzzed the delivery driver in and victoriously deposited a bag of salty, delicious sushi onto the table.

“Beer?” he asked, ducking into the kitchen. “I know you have delicate sensibilities.”

“Beer is perfectly fine, thank you,” came Zira’s prim reply.

Crowley cocked his head to the side, surprised. Then, a moment later, another call from the living room. “Slice of lime if you’ve got it, dear.”

***

“Why did you call me?” Crowley asked, voice coming out softer than he’d intended. “Tracy would have been on the moped before you’d even hung up the phone, you know she would have.”

“Always hated having to go in the sidecar. Helmet plays havoc with my hair,” Zira said, taking a final swig from his glass and pushing it onto the edge of the coffee table. He sighed, looking down at the ground between his feet before he spoke again. “Of course I called you. I don’t have a lot of…people I can just call like that. It’s not so easy to make friends in the city. It's not so easy to do anything other than survive, really.”

Crowley had a lot of friends, friends so deeply entwined in his life that they had stopped being friends and become family a long time ago. Even so, he was well aware that he was everybody’s favourite second choice. There were partners, blood relatives, children, older friends, always a slightly stronger bond that edged him out. That night, when Zira had stood in ankle-deep water and looked at him in panic, he had realised it was the first time that he had been somebody’s first choice. He took a drink to give himself a reason to be silent for a moment, soaking up the weight of it. It was a once in a lifetime honour, to be somebody’s first choice, a responsibility, the type of gentle openness that you could spend your whole life looking for. It was palpable, the hope it gave him, but he had learned over the years that hope could be a dangerous thing to have.

Empty takeaway boxes lay in a sticky mound on the table, beer bottles lined up in a neat row along one edge. They’d switched to whisky shortly before the clock had struck midnight, which was about the time the conversation tiptoed away from small talk. It felt like the first chance they’d had to talk, to _really_ talk, as if they’d both been waiting for permission to peel away the layers of politeness and acquaintance and dive into the deep, into the core of each other.

It was the first time, after all, that they had been alone together for no reason other than one had called on the other for help. Their meetings had always been focused around work, or confined to a five minute flirtation that was cut short by the ringing of that infernal bell, or in the glaring light of daytime when secrets had to stay hidden, lest the intensity in their eyes betray them. Better to save it for the darkness, those magical hours between dusk and dawn when the world was shrouded and honesty couldn’t help but wind its way to the surface, blooming like a night flower.

They both knew it was there, had felt it on that night in the bar when they drank and talked and tried not to let the magnitude of noticing each other in the crowd mean too much. It was as if had lain in wait, the unspoken bond between them, holding back patiently to flower into something unknowable. Something precious.

“It’s not easy, any of this,” Crowley said finally. “Trusting people, finding a way to thrive. Existing, that’s easy enough. Living? _Really_ living? That’s a different animal. Finding that thing that drives you, the art that soothes your soul, that’s how you live, isn’t it? That’s the difference between existing and living. That’s where love lives, in what you can create just _because_, in the things you do because they make your heart happy, in the people that understand you, the ones who make it worthwhile. People think there’s necessity in suffering, that it’s a rite of passage on the way to success. There’s no genius in suffering, there’s just exhaustion and burnout and red bills.”

“You always seem so…together. How do you outrun it?” Zira asked, thinking of that halo of magnetism that radiated from Crowley wherever he went, of that easy smile that so rarely left his face. He had always seemed to together, so confidently striding down the path he had carved out for himself. To hear him voice the very thoughts Zira had pushed out of his own mind was startling, though there was a small comfort there, a gloomy solidarity.

“Oh, you can’t outrun it, angel. You just have to lean into the misery or it’ll eat you alive.” Crowley took another swig from his drink and leaned forward to pour them both a top up. It had clouded his judgement, the alcohol, had left him exposed in a way he would usually shy away from. Still, it was Zira he was sitting with, and the bookseller had a way of drawing the darkness out of him, seemed to innately sense it within him, could tug it loose and turn it into something shared. “You know, I thought I’d have everything figured out by now but none of us do, except for you. You spend every day surrounded by what you love.”

He paused to run a finger down the length of Zira’s arm, left a trail of fire in his wake. Zira swallowed once, twice, shook away the desire to reach out and catch his hand. “Oh, I don’t know about that. It’s just armour, the shop, it’s the only identity I have, the only thing that makes me _someone_. If I didn’t have that to my name, what would I be? Cut me open and I’m a mess, just like anybody else.”

“Mess can be the truth. Honesty. It’s not the worst thing in the world.”

“Perfection, though, that’s the goal, isn’t it? Lightness, delicacy, it’s like surrounding yourself with the sun. There’s beauty in perfection.”

“There’s beauty in reality too, angel.”

As Crowley sat there listening to Zira’s confession of a life spent chasing perfection, it was as if a voice whispered somewhere in his depths. A faraway voice, but unmistakeable. It wasn’t the first time. He’d begun to think of it as the devil on his shoulder and, lately, it had been growing bolder. _You could kiss him, you know. You could do it, slide one hand to his neck, bring his lips to yours. He’s waiting for you to do it, he’ll never make the first move, you know that. What are you so afraid of? It might just change the world. _He ran his tongue along the edge of his teeth, remembering Zira’s earlier words. _Friends_, that was that he had said. They were friends. He needed to remember that, however deliciously tempting the idea in his head was.

“Sometimes I look at you and I think that you can’t possibly be real,” Crowley said, breaking the silence. “You look like you just stepped out of a Renaissance painting…”

“Oh, thank you.” Zira smiled proudly, as if he was certain the notion was purely complimentary.

“…You speak like a Victorian gentleman, you drink like a hedonist, you shy away from the stars but you’re a dreamer, underneath, just like me. What are you, angel?”

“Somebody who has never quite fitted in the way I’m supposed to. Forever bound for the periphery, I’m afraid.” Zira looked away, took a drink and sighed. A moment later he felt Crowley’s hand come gently to rest on his knee. His touch was tentative, as if it was a question. Zira uncurled a finger from his glass, wondered how it would feel to slide his fingers through Crowley’s, to sit safely hand in hand as the night drew in around them.

“You’ve never been in my periphery,” Crowley murmured, a second after Zira lost his nerve and gripped his glass tighter than before. “Not since you fell into my life out of nowhere and hit me with that chat up line. Absolutely dire. Should have turned you away on principle, shouldn’t I? I couldn’t though, couldn’t look away. You’ve been pulling my focus ever since.”

And then Zira did the bravest thing he’d done all night. He laid his hand on top of Crowley’s, let his thumb run slowly across his skin as he reminded himself to keep breathing.

“Crowley, I need to tell you something.” His words came out in a rush, forcing their way free before he could lose his nerve. “I know this is going to sound strange.”

“What?”

“That night in the bar, the night we met… No. No, it’s nothing.” He looked away, let his vision focus on the little lock of Barnaby’s hair that was tangled on the rug underneath the coffee table.

“Go on. You can’t leave it there, you’ll drive me crazy.” Crowley’s voice was a whisper in the half light, urging him to continue.

“I just felt like, I _feel _like, when I saw you I felt like I was… It’s stupid.”

“Home?” Crowley curled his fingers around Zira’s, clung to the bookseller’s hand as if it was a lifeline, emboldened by the comfort of night time.

“Yes.” Zira smiled, felt something long-dormant flicker to life in his chest. “Yes, home. What does it mean?”

“I couldn’t tell you, angel, but we’ve got all the time in the world to figure it out.”

“What would you do? If that was true, I mean, if you _did_ have all the time in the world?”

Crowley shrugged, raised his glass to his lips and spoke of grand dreams as fondly as if they were a memory. “Oh, I don’t know. Waste it, probably. See the stars, fall in love, live long enough to watch it all burn. And buy a Bentley, obviously.”

“Obviously,” Zira echoed, breathing out a laugh.

“That’s the dream though, isn’t it? To live on your own terms. To allow yourself permission to fall into whatever gives you purpose, to give love a chance, that’s the real adventure.”

“I’ve always thought of love as a rebellion, in its own quiet way.”

Crowley raised his glass, saw himself reflected in Zira’s eyes as they turned to each other, and there was a sense of something shifting, something forever changed.

“To quiet rebellions.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And so we reach the end of Act I. Act II is kicking off on Monday and I will be delighted to see you there.
> 
> Hope you're all having a lovely weekend <3
> 
> (If anyone was wondering, the chapter title comes from Love Song by Lana Del Rey, which is FITTING)


	9. Angel of the Morning

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> It had been a relief, a metaphorical exhale that had emptied his lungs, to huddle next to Zira on the sofa and speak the words he’d been holding quietly inside himself for so long.

**Raphael’s Office, Heaven.**

Raphael stood at the window of their office, hands folded neatly behind their back. They looked down at the Earth, at the wreckage the flood had left in its wake. Water: the first test of the tribulation.

A funny thing, water, Raphael had always thought. It could take a life as easily as it could quench thirst. Essential for survival but a powerful weapon when wielded for evil. They shook their head to cast out the thought. It wasn’t right to call it evil. Not pure evil, at least. It was a test, which made it a necessary evil. Could Raphael have thought of other tests, other means of measuring humanity’s divinity that didn’t involve thousands of lives being lost as collateral damage? Of course they could. But nobody had asked Raphael.

As if on cue, they sensed a darkness sweeping down the corridor. There was a time, many thousands of years before, when that darkness had been nothing but a small kernel, and many thousands of years before that when there hadn’t been any darkness at all. Over the millennia, though, that kernel had swelled, as if something had been unleashed, as if it had been given permission to grow.

“Raphael!” The bellow was accompanied by a fist pounding against the door. Raphael had grown used to the greeting since the day of the rapture, when Crowley and Aziraphale had gone…wherever they had gone. They were still hidden, and Raphael quietly prayed every day that they would stay gone, for their own sakes.

They waited until their name was called a second time before responding. It was a small thrill to leave their fellow archangel for just a moment longer than was necessary, one crumb of control they still held. “Do come in, Gabriel, I was just making tea.”

The archangel Gabriel slammed the door open and stood in the doorway, hands clenching into fists by his sides. His hair had begun to thin, Raphael had noticed, his frame was gaunter than it had been, the whites of his eyes dulled. It was as if the exterior had begun to mimic the interior. An angel’s face, they all knew, was a reflection of its soul.

“I don’t have _time_ for tea!”

Another lie, Raphael noted. From what they had heard Gabriel had more time on his hands than ever before. Plenty of time, that meant, to ruminate alone in his office. He had been spending days at a time shut in there, footsteps pacing erratically and echoing through the corridors. The younger angels had begun to gather outside his office, would lean in close to try and hear snatches of the whispered conversations that took place inside the room. It was strange, though, that they never saw anybody leaving the office, as if the only person he had to converse with was himself.

“Why are you here, Gabriel?”

“Where are they?” he hissed, bracing both hands against the edge of Raphael’s desk as he leaned across it. There was something on his breath that smelled a lot like decay. “I know you’re hiding them. I know you helped them.”

“I am not one to meddle, Gabriel, you know that.” Raphael looked away, felt a tornado of shame spiral up within them.

Gabriel straightened back up, paced around the desk and stood over Raphael, lips curving up into the hint of a smirk. “No. No, you never did like to step in. Not even to spare your _beloved_.”

Raphael swallowed, closed their eyes and breathed in and out, in and out, tried to calm the storm that was squeezing their chest. Then they looked up at him and spoke the words aloud for the first time, held Gabriel's gaze until he was forced to look away. “Not even to spare my beloved.”

Gabriel took a step away, as if a string in his bow had become untethered, had snapped back into his face. There was power in the admission, Raphael realised, even if the words carried untold millennia of guilt in them. Their darkest moment, that which Gabriel had held over them for so many years, they held the power of it in their own hands now. They stood, took a step forward, and then another, and then one more, until all Gabriel could do was step back.

“They will make a mistake and we will find them. The final judgement is coming. They can’t outrun it.” Gabriel’s voice rose in pitch, was filled with shrill excitement by the time he finished speaking.

“Yes, you’re right. The final judgement _is_ coming. For Earth, for them, for all of us. Nobody can outrun the things they've done. What will the Almighty make of your life, Gabriel? I wonder.”

The archangel’s face fell, jaw slack and pale lilac eyes downturned in the corners. “I… I have an audience with Her. Soon. Today. She will want me to find them. As soon as they show themselves, Raphael, this game of hide and seek will be over, and they will answer for what they’ve done.”

***

_What will the Almighty make of your life, Gabriel? _Raphael’s words echoed around Gabriel’s office as he spoke them again and again until it sounded as though the quiet archangel was standing in the room with him.

“She will…She will thank me,” he muttered, pacing over the window and staring up at the clouds high above. She was out there, somewhere, working on another world, appointing another team of archangels to care for it after it was time for Her to leave. She hadn’t forgotten him though, he was Her favourite, one of the first. Loyal, always. He knew Her will, he always knew Her will, what She expected of him.

They didn’t understand. None of them did. How hard it was to be him. He was so…busy. So much to do. So many plans. The Great Plan. The end times. The final judgement. The _Ineffable_ Plan. How could he know that which was innately unknowable? But She had entrusted _him_ and him alone with them. Creation. The Earth. He was the one who had commanded Raphael and their team of _feral_ dreamers. He had held the plans in his hands before anybody else. The Earth was _his_. She had left it to him, after all.

And they had fled, the rebel angel and his fallen pet, run like cowards and _stolen_ from him. Where had they run to on that day when heaven’s cleansing fire should have burned them out of existence? They were out there, somewhere, he could feel them. It was quiet, nothing more than an echo, but it was growing louder. _Soon_, he thought, staring into the mirror above his desk, _soon that echo will grow into a spotlight_.

Gabriel heard a whisper wind its way out from the mirror’s depths, leaned in close as it came again, and for a second his reflection shifted, a darkness spreading across his features as if a devil was grinning back at him. He cried out, pulling it from the wall and slamming it against the desk until it splintered, then shattered, then fell away into shards of glass that gleamed in the light, reflecting nothing but the ceiling above them.

He felt dampness on his arm, held it aloft to find blood seeping across his skin. A cut on his wrist, scarlet droplets dripping down his forearm and soaking into his shirt sleeve. He glanced down at the slash and it disappeared without trace, the blood vanishing from his skin as if it was a fast-fading memory.

“Invincible,” he said aloud. Alone in his office, the archangel Gabriel smiled.

***

**October. Crowley’s Flat, London.**

Crowley awoke with a pain in his back that was a stark reminder of his own mortality. Nothing, he reasoned, made you feel more fragile than beginning the day with a stiff back. He sat up on the sofa and reached one fist over his shoulder to rub deep circles against his shoulder blade. It didn’t do much to help, just identified a few extra knots he hadn’t realised were there.

“Such is life,” he muttered, swinging his legs off of the sofa and reaching for his phone. _9.13am_, it read, which explained why Barnaby was sitting by the door casting furtive glances across at his lead. “Give me a sec, boy.”

There was no trace of movement behind the closed door of the bedroom, so Crowley left Zira to sleep off the whisky from the night before and quietly slipped out of the flat with Barnaby in tow.

It was a very unremarkable October morning, at least where the weather was concerned. The sky was overcast, a dull grey that seemed as though it was threatening rain but didn’t really have the energy to follow through on the promise. Unlike the mid-morning sky above him, however, Crowley was feeling particularly buoyed as he strolled to the corner shop with Barnaby padding along next to him. 

“Eggs, do you think?” he asked, taking Barnaby’s silence as a resounding yes. “Yes, I think so too. Nothing like eggs on a Saturday morning. Eggs and good company.”

It had been a relief, a metaphorical exhale that had emptied his lungs, to huddle next to Zira on the sofa and speak the words he’d been holding quietly inside himself for so long. Crowley wasn’t naive enough to believe that same magic would wind itself around them that morning, knew only too well that intensity was a moonlit secret, something that could only be tugged free in the darkness. Those whispered confessions from the night before would have retreated back into the shadows as the sun came up, and while Crowley was prepared for his feelings to revert back to business as usual in the unflinching glare of day time and sobriety, there was something thrilling about knowing he hadn’t been alone in sensing _something_ between them.

Zira was nowhere to be found when they returned to the flat but the bedroom door had been opened, left slightly ajar, and Barnaby was always one to take an open door as an invitation.

“_No_,” Crowley hissed, depositing the shopping bags on the kitchen counter as he saw the dog nose the door open and quietly slip inside the room as if he had every right to be there.

Barnaby was not allowed on the bed. Barnaby knew he was not allowed on the bed. And yet, by the time Crowley reached the doorway he had already hopped up onto the foot of the bed and curled up, nose to tail, like a very hairy doughnut. Crowley opened his mouth to tell him to get down, then closed it when he realised Zira was still fast asleep, a nondescript lump underneath the duvet with only his head peeking out, Barnaby nestled against the outline of what might have been his shins.

He looked so peaceful, forehead smoothed of the anxious lines that usually accompanied whatever worried expression was painted on his face, mouth relaxed open as he breathed deeply, lost to whisky-fuelled sleep.

_Oh._ Crowley sighed, realising with mounting dread that his feelings from the night before hadn’t retreated into the shadows at all. If anything they felt more potent that morning, as the weak rays of the clouded sun streamed in through the thin curtains and bathed the bed in soft light. _This is…extremely inconvenient._

In what was a moment of madness, or perhaps the residual alcohol from the night before raising its head for one last hurrah, Crowley sank down on the edge of the bed and reached out to run his hand through Zira’s hair, fingers brushing the soft curls back from his forehead. The bookseller shifted underneath him, gently leaned into Crowley’s touch and sighed sleepily, eyelashes fluttering open as if he was waking from a wonderful dream.

“Good morning,” he said, voice husky and eyes half-closed.

“Morning.” Crowley smiled down, pulled his hand away from Zira’s hair. “Sorry, for waking you. You’ve got a stowaway.”

Zira glanced down at Barnaby, whose tail was thumping a drumbeat on the mattress, eyes guiltily trained downward. “Oh, he’s all right. Like a foot warmer, aren’t you?”

“Hungry?” Crowley asked, standing up and heading for the kitchen. “I’m making eggs.”

“Ah, the famous scrambled eggs.” Zira padded out behind him, stretching both arms up above his head, bowing back as he savoured the click of his spine.

With a mug of tea in one hand and the day’s newspaper in the other, Zira settled down at the little circular table in the living room and marvelled at the joy of a simple Saturday morning spent in delightful company. Barnaby was pacing from dining table to the kitchen, sniffing hopefully for stray crumbs on the floor, while Crowley bustled about cracking eggs and singing along to the radio as if having breakfast with a client after an evening of soul-baring was a wholly natural occurrence. Zira was so swept up in the peaceful domesticity of the morning that he had barely given the stack of paperwork that was bound to accompany his impending insurance claim much of a thought. It was like Crowley had said: the water had stopped before they’d even left, the veritable cardboard fortress was in place, and a plumber had confirmed an appointment for that lunch time. The upstairs carpets might be worse for wear, and he dreaded the condition of the floorboards, but the books were safe and perhaps new carpets wouldn’t be the worst thing in the world. Zira shook his head then, startled. _Did I just…think of the silver lining?_ That was a change.

“Toast?” Crowley asked a moment later, his voice tearing Zira’s attention away from a very informative newspaper article about the recent resurgence of renaissance dance styles.

_The Gavotte is Back!_ read the headline, and Zira beamed down at it. “Well, isn’t that lovely news? Yes, toast would be spot on.”

A rap at the door rang out across the flat, and Zira wrinkled his brow. No crackle of the intercom from the main door. A neighbour, perhaps?

“Oh, get that, will you?” Crowley asked casually, just as Zira felt terror wash over him at the notion of a surprise social interaction while clad in pyjamas, of all things.

_But who is it?_ He wanted to ask. _The postman? A long-lost friend? A mortal enemy? I can’t just…open the door. It could be anybody._ Internal panic raging like a kraken rising up from a stormy sea, Zira took a very deep, very brave breath and opened the door to find a tall, imposing man staring down at him with an overflowing box of vegetables in his arms.

The man looked Zira up and down, before flashing him a smile that lay somewhere between shock and curiosity. “You’re new. Sleepover, was it?”

“Get in here, you old gossip.” Crowley appeared next to him in the doorway, waving the man inside as he rolled his eyes. “Zira, this is Mick. Mick, this is Zira. He’s not _new_, he’s a…friend.”

“A friend. Well, hello Zira, it’s nice to know who’s been keeping this one so busy. And you, I bring you gifts, grown by my own hand, and this is the thanks I get.” The man stepped into the flat, depositing the box of muddy vegetables on the edge of the dining table before he knelt down to clutch Barnaby’s face in his hands, smacking a kiss on the top of the dog’s nose. “Hello, trouble. What chaos have you been causing your dad lately then?”

“Oh, just the usual. Barking at trees, hassling the world and his wife, stealing chips when he thinks I’m not looking.” Crowley’s voice echoed out from the kitchen, where he was whisking eggs together in a bowl. Between them, Zira had sat back down at the table, watching the scene unfold with quiet contemplation. It was quite something, the back and forth between them, an almost non-stop volley of insults that he knew was an unspoken code for deep affection. “Your laptop’s on the side. I told you, stop downloading your entire music library and it might actually work for once.”

Mick leaned over the sofa to pick up the battered laptop, before turning back to Zira. “Does he nag you this much?”

“Yes, as a matter of fact.” Zira laughed, finding something relaxing about this older man’s giant appearance underpinned with the gentle way he had folded Zira into the conversation, as if his bickering with Crowley was something inclusive, rather than an inside joke that shut newcomers out. “And there I was thinking I was special.”

“Are you fishing for compliments, angel? All you need to do is ask.” Crowley leaned out of the kitchen, just as Mick mouthed the word ‘_angel?_’ to Zira, one eyebrow raising in interest. “Do you want eggs, old-timer? I’ll add cod liver oil to yours if you like, good for tired bones, so they say.”

“Hold the cod liver oil, cheeky bastard. You’ve got a gig next week. Wednesday. See if you can show up on time for once.”

“Oh, pipe down. That was one time.”

“Twice. Although I think we’ve found our answer as to what’s taking up all your time.” Mick winked at him across the table, and Zira tried not to smile quite as widely as he wanted to. “I’ll take breakfast to go, if that’s all right. Got another box of veg to drop off at Sammy’s. Single-handedly stopping the lot of you getting rickets, me and my allotment.”

“Sammy! how is he?” Zira asked, remembering the last time he had seen Crowley’s friend, slumped in the back of the taxi whimpering softly that he would never find love.

“_Oh_,” Mick dropped his voice, leaning in towards Zira. “You’ve met the others then? You two must be great…_friends_.”

“I can hear you.” Crowley pulled up a chair at the table, depositing a foil-wrapped sandwich in front of Mick and lowering a plate of creamy, buttery scrambled eggs on toast in front of Zira. “Now bugger off and stop gossiping. I’ll see you on Wednesday.”

Mick paused at the door, waggled a finger in Crowley’s direction. “Don’t be late!”

“Thanks for these.” Crowley picked up the box of vegetables and disappeared back into the kitchen, tossing a goodbye over his shoulder as Mick closed the door, leaving them alone again.

After the whirlwind of energy that had been Crowley and Mick’s lively banter, Zira found himself pondering the silence that it left in its wake as he savoured the first mouthful of Crowley’s signature dish, something the dog walker had spent the last few weeks hyping up.

“These…” Zira trailed off, unable to resist tucking into another mouthful. “These are the best eggs I have _ever_ eaten.”

“You flatter me.” Crowley grinned, sitting down opposite him with his own plate, eggs lightly scattered with flecks of green chives, freshly cut from Mick’s box of allotment offerings. “You’ve got a long day of flood damage to assess, you need all the strength you can get.”

“Hmm, yes.” Zira pursed his lips, glancing up at the clock. The plumber was due just after lunch, making their time together almost over. It hit him in a way he hadn’t expected, the disappointment that he had to leave, that he couldn’t wile away the rest of the day talking about everything and nothing until the sun set and the conversation could take a turn back to the emotions they had quietly explored the night before.

“Are you all right, angel?” Crowley asked a moment later, fork hovering next to his mouth as he spotted Zira staring down at the table, lost in thought.

The bookseller looked up, smiled weakly. “Yes, yes I’m fine, sorry.”

The truth was, he had felt a certain low level melancholy creep its way into his psyche, beginning to drizzle over the good feeling from the night before. In the wake of Mick’s flying visit, the casual way he had come right on up and knocked on Crowley’s door, had visited enough times to know the door code, Zira dwelled on his own solitude. He had Tracy, of course, her regular visits to the shop, the monthly dinners that he so looked forward to, however nonchalant he might pretend to be. He had Raphael and Luci, their weekly visits to ply him with food and wine, the occasional dinner party invitation when they got themselves organised enough to have guests. He enjoyed it, their bohemian world of galleries and book launches and restaurant openings, but he had always kept his friends at a distance, as if he held them at an arm’s length at all times. He would let them stray close, but not _too_ close. Close enough to let them talk him into ridiculous activities like speed dating; certainly not close enough for them to drop by unannounced.

“Does it happen a lot?” he asked, nodding towards the front door. “People dropping by like that?”

Crowley swallowed a mouthful of food, nodded in response. “Like recognises like. If you don’t fit in you have to make your own family. It’s stronger really, friendship. Everything you do for each other is borne out of choice, not duty. Borne out of necessity too, when you don’t have something you have to make it, you have to forge your own lifelines or you’ll never survive. Everyone needs a network they can fall back on.” He raised his mug of tea in Zira’s direction, thinking of the small disaster that had led to them having breakfast together that morning. “Even you.”

_Loneliness is a killer._ The thought rattled around Zira’s brain, and he wondered if perhaps Tracy was onto something.

***

The weather was still at odds as Crowley and Zira strolled through the frenetic hustle and bustle that was Covent Garden on a Saturday lunchtime. Sticking to Crowley’s side like a shadow was Barnaby, panting impatiently at the crowds as he wound his way through the clumps of brunching tourists alongside his human parent, and the other human his human parent couldn’t seem to stop glancing at.

“I hope it’s all right when you get back,” Crowley said quietly, as they rounded the corner of Greek Street and the shop’s stylishly worn exterior came into view. It was still standing, at least, didn’t have waves lapping against the windows. “If you need anywhere to stay tonight, call me, okay?”

“Thank you.” Zira touched him lightly on the forearm, patted Barnaby on the shoulder and then took a deep breath as he unlocked the shop door. It was not, thankfully, accompanied by a rush of dirty water, and the shop floor had remained unscathed. Zira gestured across to the cardboard boxes barricading the internal door, laughing when he saw the crinkled line that had dried around their bases. “Looks like your idea did the trick.”

“Well, it wasn’t exactly the Great Flood, was it?” Crowley smiled, hovered in the doorway when he realised he wasn’t ready to leave. Not just yet. Another moment, that was all he needed. “I’ll swing by in the next couple of weeks and show you how I'm getting on with the site. Leave you to get things sorted out here first, right?”

“Right.” Zira sighed, heart sinking at the notion of spending his evenings choosing carpet samples instead of pretending he understood what Crowley meant when he talked about a CRM system.

“Almost there, angel, and then you won’t need to worry about me turning up after hours when you’re trying to make cocoa.”

“Pity. I’ve got quite into the habit of making enough for two.”

That time, for the first time, it was Crowley who was left dithering, hoping his cheeks weren’t rebelling by blushing too deeply. “We, er, I don’t know if you heard Mick say. We’ve got a gig on Wednesday. We’ll be on at half eleven. You can come, if you like, I’ll text you the address.”

“Oh.” Zira nodded. _Half eleven, on a work night? He must be mad. _“Maybe.”

Crowley looked down for a moment, and when he straightened back up that vulnerability was gone, replaced with a twinkle in his eye that left Zira bracing himself for imminent mischief. “Anyway, we should head off and leave you to it. Turns out speed dating wasn’t a total waste of time. We’re off to meet someone, aren’t we, Barnaby?”

“_What?_” Zira wailed, his body betraying him all the way from his widened eyes down to his hands, one of which balled into a fist in his pocket, the other reaching for Crowley for the briefest of moments, before he recovered enough to drop it casually to his side. “That’s…nice…for…you.”

“Oh, didn’t I say? Realised before I sat down we weren’t each other’s type but he was looking for a new dog walker so I gave him my card. Are you…jealous, angel?”

“No, I am not _jealous_,” Zira hissed, jealousy coursing through his body so intensely his eyes had all but turned green. “Why in the world would I be jealous? Honestly. Go on, you’d better go or you’ll be late to meet your new _friend_.”

“Yes. My new friend who is a golden retriever.” Crowley grinned back at him, sliding on his sunglasses before he sauntered away from the shop, smiling as he felt Zira’s eyes trained on his back until he disappeared from sight.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for all for reading, hope you enjoyed :). Next chapter is coming on Wednesday! I hope your Monday has been speedy and not at all Mondayish <3


	10. Something Just Like This

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “First of all, not my boyfriend. Second of all, there is nothing wrong with these jeans. Leave me alone. I hate all of you.” Crowley slumped further into the sofa cushions, tried to keep the smile from his face as his friends continued to tease him.

**October. Devil’s Den Nightclub, Islington.**

Zira wrapped his arms around his body and sighed as he turned in a neat semi-circle at the end of the road and began the long trudge back down the pavement for the second time. Crowley had sent him the address, as promised, so why in the world couldn’t he find the venue? Surely a place called Devil’s Den would be easy enough to find, gloomy orchestral music radiating out from a balcony, or red lights illuminated outside. Some significant marker, at least.

He should have worn a jacket. Or stayed at home and sent Crowley an apologetic excuse from the safety of a cocoon of blankets. As tempting as it was to shy away from the cold night air, there was something about spending the night in Crowley’s vicinity that he couldn’t say no to, even if it was madness to wander halfway across London at near enough midnight on a _work_ night.

_I should go home, this is useless. All of these buildings look exactly the same and not one of them looks anything like a concert venue. For heaven’s sake, what are you doing? You don’t do this. You’re a bookseller, not a…groupie. _Zira exhaled with a sigh, and the sound was far more dramatic than he’d intended, a dragon of condensation rising out of his mouth in the autumn chill. _What if there are other groupies there?! I’m leaving, this is ridiculous. If I go now I could be home before…_

Zira stopped in his tracks as he spotted a couple pulling open two shabby red doors and slipping inside. In the brief moments the doors were held open he could hear music. And it sounded devilish indeed. _This must be the place._

He fussed with his shirt sleeves, rolling them up and then immediately rolling them back down. He had spent far longer than he cared to admit standing in front of his open wardrobe panicking about what the appropriate sartorial choice was for a concert where you didn’t know a single soul. In the end he had opted for his usual attire but had lost the bow tie, having the self-awareness to know that that was definitely a step too far.

_Well_, he thought, rolling his shoulders back and fixing as brave a smile on his face as he could muster, _let’s get this show on the road. I hope I haven’t left it too late to get a seat_. He tugged the doors open, a fleck of red paint coming loose on his palm. He tutted, brushing it off with the other hand as he stepped inside Devil’s Den and immediately squinted in the dim light.

“One, please,” he said politely, pausing at what he presumed to be the box office, where a girl barely out of her teens with a curving arc of rings in her right eyebrow furrowed her brow in amusement.

“This is the cloakroom. Just go in, mate.”

Zira had barely reached the bottom of the winding staircase before he realised he was well and truly out of his league. Devil’s Den indeed; as he stepped into the main room and almost sagged back with the volume of the thudding music it felt a lot like accidentally wandering into the depths of the underworld.

The first thing he noticed was that there were no seats, just a crowded dance floor that was already crammed with sweaty bodies. The second thing he noticed was that he appeared to be the only attendee who was dressed in anything other than black. The third thing he noticed was that his shoes stuck to the floor with every nervous step he took further inside the club. And, finally, he noticed that he was secretly exhilarated by every wretched part of it.

He edged his way around the crowd and queued politely at the bar until one of the barman took pity on him and served him, realising he was never going to fight his way to the front as was customary. Zira ordered a gin and tonic, felt it was more appropriate than asking for wine. Then he ordered a second, for dutch courage purposes.

_Absolute madness_, he thought, gingerly committing to a viewpoint as close to the front as he could get without too much jostling. He had a drink in each hand, he was in no position to jostle. _Look at yourself, all of this for somebody who isn’t even going to notice you’re here. Just stay for one song, that’s all._

As he sipped nervously from his drink, wishing he’d made it a double, he glanced up at the empty stage and pondered just how far out of his comfort zone he was, realising that there was nobody else he was willing to step outside of it for.

***

“Oh, come on guys, they’re not that tight.” Crowley turned to the side and tugged at one of the belt loops of his jeans to prove a point. They gave way by half an inch, at best, before he let go and the taut denim snapped back against his hips.

“They’re literally sprayed on.” Lily, the band’s bassist and sometimes vocalist, leaned back in her chair, swigging from a beer bottle as she smirked at Crowley. “That’s why you can’t walk like a functioning human.”

“They are aggressively tight, mate.” Sammy added, giving Crowley the once over and shaking his head as if he had truly outdone himself.

Crowley sank back into the musty sofa in the room that the club jokingly referred to as_ the Green Room_, which was really a barely-there kitchen that had seen far better days. There was a lingering smell of damp and one window pane had a long crack in it but Crowley had spent untold hours in that little room laughing with his bandmates, drinking between sets, and commiserating after shows that had gone down in flames. It was in that room that the four of them had turned from friends with a shared hobby into a makeshift family, each one of them finding something they hadn’t known they needed from the others.

His daydream was cut short when Lily leaned forward and pointed at his shirt. “Have you undone an extra button, you absolute tart?”

And then, to Crowley’s dismay, the questions kept coming like a flood, Lily and Sammy leaning in closer and closer as they scrutinised his appearance, beaming at each other as he visibly squirmed under the pressure.

“Why are you wearing so much aftershave?”

“Have you actually _cleaned_ your shoes? What the hell is going on?”

“Have you done your hair? You’ve done your hair. Who are you trying to shag?”

“Oh.” Sammy nodded wisely, as understanding dawned on him. “Is it the bookseller?”

“_Sammy_!” Crowley warned, raising both eyebrows in a gesture that was supposed to be subtle but had, apparently, not gone unnoticed.

Lily slapped one hand against her thigh as the other grabbed at Sammy’s arm in excitement. “The _BOOKSELLER_, is that a code name?”

“No, he actually is a bookseller. Nice guy. Whimsical hair. You should see it, Lil, gazing at each other like they’re…happy. Absolutely sickening.” Sammy shook his head just as Dan, vocalist and eternal latecomer, crashed through the door, tossing pre-emptive apologies into the air in case Mick was loitering in a corner.

“Who’s a bookseller?” Dan asked, reaching into the ancient fridge for a bottle of water, which he drained in four big gulps.

“Little brother’s new boyfriend.”

“Ah.” The singer reached down to clap Crowley on the shoulder. “That explains the jeans.”

“First of all, not my boyfriend. Second of all, there is nothing wrong with these jeans. Leave me alone. I hate all of you.” Crowley slumped further into the sofa cushions, tried to keep the smile from his face as his friends continued to tease him. It was the sort of good-natured ridiculing that warmed his heart, reminded him that there were people out there who loved him enough to mock him mercilessly. It was an easy dynamic that they had, the unconventional foursome, dispersing at the end of each gig to retreat back to their separate worlds until the next occasion brought them together. They each had their own lives to keep them occupied between shows: Lily with her tattoo studio and foster cats; Dan with his corporate job in the City, wife and new baby; Sammy with his…well, Sammy had more time on his hands for existential wailing than he used to; and then there was Crowley, who the others joked was the sulky little brother of the group.

He took a drink, felt the bitter beer on his tongue, and let his thoughts drift, inevitably, to Zira. He had been mildly disappointed, selfishly, that the bookseller hadn’t called him looking for a place to stay again in the wake of the flood, but, if he pushed his own desires to one side, he was happy it meant that the shop was on the mend. He wondered, cautiously, if he might be standing outside in the club at that very moment. _Don’t be stupid, of course he won’t be. He’s turned you down again and again and again, why would tonight be any different?_

_Still_, he thought with a wry smile, _maybe fourth time’s the charm._

***

“Thanks for coming everyone, we’re Lucifer and the Guys!” Dan leaned in close to the microphone as the rest of the band fiddled with pedals and tuners and drum sticks until they were satisfied.

Crowley strummed a couple of test chords, nodding when he was ready. Dan counted them in with a steady click of his fingers and they were away. Stage lights on, tangle of amp cords on the floor, crowd just about drunk enough to sing along so there wasn’t an embarrassing silence between songs. Another gig, another hundred quid split four ways that would disappear into the bar till shortly after they left the stage, and another night of chasing away loneliness.

It wasn’t something he needed to survive, the spotlight, didn’t feel a particularly potent drive to perform, to be the centre of attention. What drove him was the work it took to get there, the late nights of practising, the time taken to settle on the next song they wanted to cover, Dan and Lily consistently at odds about what their _sound_ should be. Crowley didn’t much care what their sound was, just knew that he enjoyed milling around on stage, fingertips indented with narrow furrows from guitar strings. It quietened his mind, gave him something immediate to focus on instead of the hundreds of little worries that would cloud his conscious if he stayed still for too long. What he relished most were the moments where he would catch eyes with one of the others, meet them in a little grin as they reminded each other _we’re doing this, we’re supposed to have grown out of this, but we’re doing it anyway._

*

Zira could feel the gap between his lips as he breathed heavily in and out, knew his mouth was hanging open, couldn’t care less. He was being well and truly jostled as the crowd tightened to draw closer to the band but he let himself get carried forward with their momentum, not noticing the spilled drink that left a dark streak of liquid down his left trouser leg. He wasn’t noticing much at all except that there, on stage, looking every inch the tousled, aloof guitarist of his dreams that he never knew he needed, was Crowley. _Look at him_, Zira thought, vaguely aware that even his inner dialogue had taken on a lovesick tone as he watched Crowley draw up alongside Sammy and lean into the microphone above the drum kit to sing the song’s chorus. _Look at the way he…wields that guitar. Has to be intentional. Can’t be an accident, hair artfully dishevelled, jeans tighter than jeans have any business being. Stop staring. Have a drink. Close your mouth, for heaven’s sake._

It was hard, though, for Zira to do anything other than gaze up at Crowley as he sauntered across the stage as if there was nowhere else in the world that he belonged. Leaning into the crowd to soak up their energy, he stepped one foot up to rest against a speaker and grinned out at them, and somewhere in the crowd Zira’s brain went into meltdown. _This is a Code Red, Zira Fell, vacate the premises immediately or you’ll be truly lost. _In the basement of Devil’s Den, Zira shook his head to quiet his brain, having absolutely no intention of listening to a single pearl of wisdom it planned on dispensing that night.

*

Crowley had tried not to let the disappointment get to him when he didn’t step out on stage to immediately find Zira in the front row with a handmade sign declaring his undying lust. He had known that the bookseller wouldn’t show up, imagined Zira tucked up in bed with a book, fretting about whatever perceived disaster his brain had dreamed up that evening. It made him smile, despite his disappointment, knew that there was very little Zira could do that wouldn’t put a smile on his face. There was something about his sweet nature, the way he always seemed slightly at odds with himself, that had Crowley wrapped around his little finger.

_He’ll have texted me_, Crowley thought hopefully, feeling a twist in his stomach at the notion of being completely stood up, _I’ll get off stage and I’ll have a text from him with an excuse that I’ll pretend to believe. That’s how this works. I ask, he says no, he says not yet, he says maybe, and I’ll keep asking anyway._

Crowley had weathered enough storms on stage to know that the show must always go on. He had suffered snapped guitar strings, an inexplicable loss of his entire back pocket stash of spare plectrums, had even survived that particularly humiliating night a few months previously when Dan’s wife had gone into labour mid-gig and he had thrust the microphone in Crowley’s hand and told him to take over vocal duties for the last three songs of their set. He had barely scraped through that one unscathed, but still, he had just about managed to keep his cool. However, on that October night, as their fourth song transitioned into the fifth, the crowd shifted and there, clutching a drink in each hand and gazing up at him, was Zira.

_He came. I invited him and he came. Alone. _He knew what an insurmountable task that would have felt like to the bookseller, to abandon the safety of the shop and trek across London to venture into an underground club without anybody to lean on. _He did that to see me_.

“_Crowley_.”

He heard a voice hiss his name, turned slack-jawed to find Lily glaring pointedly at the guitar that was hanging silently in front of him. He shot her an apologetic look, swung the neck of his guitar up and proceeded to make up for his momentary lapse by peacocking across stage as if he suddenly had somebody to show off for.

As he turned he caught Sammy’s eye, and the dummer nodded into the crowd, raising an eyebrow. The move was so quintessentially Sammy, to mock him relentlessly but to have kept an eye on the crowd to see if Zira would show, that Crowley almost dropped his guitar again to run and give his friend a hug. He kept it together though, just beamed back, too happy to put up a front.

As the song ended, Crowley took the opportunity to drain a bottle of water and wipe one shirt sleeve across his forehead, given that sweat flying out into the audience was not at the top of his seduction techniques.

Hurried water break over with, he took his cue from Sammy’s steady drumbeat and strummed the first chords of the next song. As he looked out across the crowd their eyes met for the first time and Crowley knew there was nothing in the world, not in heaven or hell, that could make him look away. The lights faded, the music seemed to still, and as a slow smile spread across Zira’s face Crowley found himself staring back and swallowing one, deep gulp.

_You are going to ruin me_, he thought, _and I’m going to love every single second of it._

*

Zira was transfixed. He was vaguely aware that somebody was singing and that somewhere there was a drumbeat underpinning each song but his focus lay distinctly elsewhere. Energy was rippling off of the stage in grand waves that washed over him, leaving him shifting impatiently from foot to foot. What he was impatient for he couldn’t have spoken aloud even if he’d wanted to but he knew he was impatient for something, and he had a feeling it all came back to the redheaded guitarist he had been locked in a very intense staring match with for the past three songs.

There was an edge to him as he moved across the stage, the red spotlights bathing him in scarlet light and cutting his face back to its sharpest angles, all cheekbones and straight slash of a jawline. He looked harder under that light and Zira thought back to the last day they had spent together, of the way he had quietly sung along to the radio as he’d melted butter in a pan and told the bookseller to buckle up, because he was about to be treated to the best scrambled eggs in London. 

There was a delicious thrill in seeing him perform, coupled with a vague swell of jealousy as Zira noted the other pairs of eyes trained on him as he moved. Seeing him like that but knowing the sweet side of him that lay underneath felt a lot like being let in on a secret, the bookseller thought, as he allowed himself the luxury of remembering how it had felt to wake up with Crowley sitting beside him, of the feeling of his fingers running through his hair when he thought he was sleeping.

_You have no idea_, he thought, as he looked up at the stage, _you have no idea of the things I would do if I wasn’t so afraid._

***

Zira had been fairly sure that watching Crowley strut across stage, fingers sliding up and down the fretboard of his guitar, hair slick with sweat, was the peak of his evening. Seemed an impossibility the night could improve from there. That was, at least, until he spotted Crowley emerge from the backstage door, jog down the stage steps into the crowd and make a beeline straight for him.

“You’re here!” Crowley reached for his forearm, eyes wide and sparkling. “I can’t believe you came.”

“You were amazing!” Zira shouted back, straining to make his voice heard over the thudding music.

They grinned at each other before Crowley pulled him into a hug, holding onto him for a moment longer than was strictly necessary. _Let him go_, he warned himself, as he took a step back and tried to calm the performance high that was coursing through his veins. _You know what he’s like, he won’t take kindly to being manhandled._

“I’m sweaty,” Crowley said finally, eloquence abandoned around the same time he let his carefully orchestrated casual persona fly out of the window. “I’m really sweaty. I’m sorry. Stage lights. I definitely sweated on you just then. I’m sorry. Wow, so, you’re here.” _Stop talking about your sweat, for god’s sake, what the hell is wrong with you?_

“So.” Zira paused to glance at the two girls who were standing just behind Crowley, elbowing each other as if they were fighting about which one of them was going to speak to him first. “You’re the, er, big cheese around here? Not that I can blame them for staring, you were very good up there.”

“No idea. Hadn’t noticed. Got a bit distracted, renegade bookseller showed up and threw me off. We’re going for a drink in a minute, you’re coming, right? Let me get you a drink. I can’t believe you came all this way.”

***

It was easy when it was just the two of them. Whether they were bickering over the dinner table, walking through the park with Barnaby or gazing longingly at each other across Sammy’s unconscious body in the back of a taxi, it didn’t matter to Zira. When he was alone with Crowley it worked. He felt like he became more of himself when they were together, as if the simple joy of being with somebody who made him feel _enough _helped him shrug off the weighty coat of anxiety he usually hauled around on his back.

It was, however, a different matter when they were not alone, and Zira could feel his nerves building as he followed Crowley down the street towards their next destination. The others had walked on ahead, chatting about that night’s gig, arguing good-naturedly about which songs might make it onto their next setlist. They were a mismatched group, seemed to have four different aesthetic styles running concurrently, but there was something about that that Zira liked. He was himself, after all, so wildly different from Crowley in so many ways. If _they_ could fit so seamlessly with him, then perhaps, in time, he could too.

“Thank you,” Crowley murmured, falling in-step with him. His voice was calmer than it had been in the club, and Zira took in the dark circles under his eyes, the way he shook away a yawn before it could truly burst forth. “For coming tonight. It was…it was nice to see you there. I didn’t think you’d make it.”

“Couldn’t keep letting you down, could I?” Zira looked up at him, smiled in the safety of the darkness, that feeling of unspoken words rising to the surface again. “You might have stopped asking me.”

“I don’t know about that. Patience of a saint, me.” He reached across to tug gently at the unbuttoned collar of Zira’s shirt. “Fancied a change then?”

“You didn’t give me _any_ idea what the dress code was. Thought perhaps I should lose the bow tie for a night.”

Crowley laughed, swinging the door to the pub open as they followed the others inside. “Oh, I'm not sure, angel, I’m getting pretty partial to it. I like tartan. It’s stylish.”

***

_It’s half past one in the morning, _Zira thought to himself, letting the bitterness of a very dry gin and tonic fill his mouth as he tried not to get too giddy about the fact Crowley’s hand was lingering very close to his on top of the table. _It’s half past one in the morning and I’m drinking with the band. Raphael is going to love this._

It was becoming a very enjoyable pastime, to spend their weekly lunches together regaling Raphael with stories of the adventures he had been on. Eternally supportive, his friend would nod along encouragingly, would gasp in all the right places, and then wile away far too much of the afternoon letting Zira ramble about what it all _meant_. Raphael’s advice, if it could be called that, was simple: _if you don’t know what it means, why don’t you just ask him?_ Zira would recoil in horror, bluster at the very notion of asking Crowley anything of the sort. No, he was happy enough to sit back and let whatever _it_ was unfold in front of him. And that night, _it _involved squeezing in around a little table in a dimly lit bar and watching Crowley in his natural habitat: surrounded by people who loved him and, more than that, loved to tease him.

“Zira, settle a debate for us.” Lily raised her glass and Zira braced himself. While Lily had been nothing but friendly since Crowley had introduced them, she was wildly intimidating in a way that left Zira unable to do much other than smile politely and try and avoid her gaze. It might have been the perfectly executed cat-eye eyeliner, he wasn’t sure, but when she looked at him he felt as though she saw _everything_, and given the present company, he wasn’t keen on anybody knowing how he truly felt. “The jeans. They’re getting tighter with every new pair, aren’t they?”

Next to him, Crowley sighed. “There is _nothing_ wrong with my jeans.”

“They’re, er, illuminating.” Zira sat back, beaming as the others burst into laughter and Crowley gently elbowed him in protest.

“Oh, now you’re piling on me as well?”

_I wish, my snake-hipped rock star. I wish._

By the time the table was littered with empty glasses and last orders was approaching, Zira had been catching up on Lucifer and the Guys’ abridged musical history, including the archetypal roles they all fulfilled in the band.

“So,” Zira leaned forward, right elbow coming to rest against Crowley’s. “If Lily is the hell raiser, Dan is the papa bear, and Sammy is the endearing one, what does that make Crowley?”

He heard vague protestations loose themselves from Crowley’s lips, delighted as the others jumped in before his complaints could drown them out.

“He’s the brooding one who thinks we’re not smart enough to realise he’s lip syncing when he’s supposed to be singing backing vocals.”

Crowley exhaled a laugh into his pint glass, looked up at them guiltily. “Guys, in my defence…”

Around the table the others leaned in and Zira felt, for the first time in a long while, as though he was becoming part of something. “Oh, we can’t wait to hear this.”

***

“Well, this has been suitably humiliating but I think it’s time for us to love you and leave you.” Crowley drained the last of his drink and stood up, shrugging on his jacket and nodding towards the door. “Long walk back to Soho.”

“Walking home via Soho? Not at all out of your way. Not a huge diversion for you. Not like you’re adding half an hour onto your journey.” Sammy laughed, ducking before Crowley could cuff him on the back of the head. 

“You have said _quite_ enough this evening. One more peep out of you and I might remember exactly what happened at speed dating.”

“Speed dating!” Lily wailed, voice teetering on the edge of drunkenness as she clutched the edge of the table. “We forgot to talk about it! Oh, go on, what happened. Sammy, _please_.”

Sammy took a deep, shuddering breath, and then he began. “Well, in short, these two stared at each other like star-crossed lovers for the entire night…and I…was also there. And that’s everything that happened. Gosh, is that the time? Better go. See you next Saturday.”

“Right.” Lily gave him a nod, as if to confirm their chat about speed dating was not over by any stretch of the imagination. As Sammy slipped away before he could attract any further heat, Lily turned her attention to Crowley and Zira, who were hovering by the table as if waiting for permission to leave together. “Are you bringing this one along?”

Crowley looked across at him, raised one eyebrow in question. “Halloween party next weekend. Fancy dress, too many drinks, lots of bad decisions. Up for it, angel?”

“Do you know what, Crowley?” Zira looked back at him, and Crowley had begun to smile before he’d even finished speaking. “Yes, I am.”

***

“You don’t have to walk me all the way back,” Zira said, as they paced through the streets of Islington, the Angel Central sculpture rising up to greet them, metal-feathered against the night sky. “I know it’s out of your way.”

“Only chance I had to get you to myself for a while.” Crowley fell silent, let the weight of his words sink in before he changed the subject, retreating back to safer ground. “You never told me how things are in the shop. Dried out finally?”

Zira rolled his eyes, a laboured sigh escaping his lips. “Hardly. Stairs need to be re-carpeted, lord knows what they’re going to do with the floorboards but they can’t do anything until they’ve dried out underneath. It’s a nightmare, Crowley, honestly, the paperwork…”

“You could just do it online, you’re getting pretty good at e-mailing now. Sometimes you even remember to add a subject line.” He shrugged, then pointed at a familiar set of golden arches that were shining out like a siren song in the distance. “Pit stop?”

It was interesting, Zira mused, as he walked alongside Crowley, how the way you viewed somebody was through a singular lens. To him, Crowley represented temptation, an enticing sort of danger that threatened to knock his world off-kilter if he got too close. He was something infinite, a swirl of possibilities that was everything Zira had buried his head from for so long. On that night back in August when he’d thrown caution to the wind and poked his head above ground for long enough to single out a kindred spirit from amongst the masses, he had enjoyed his first morsel of what bravery felt like. And he was, he realised, growing very fond of the way it tasted.

While he liked his viewpoint of Crowley the very best, let his own self-indulgence take over and believe that he was treated to a hidden side that was only unlocked occasionally, he was fascinated by the way the rest of the world saw him. To Tracy he was Anthony who looked after her dogs, inexplicably charmed her notoriously grumpy husband, and had melancholy in his soul. To Mick he was something of a surrogate son, somebody to treat and, in return, to lean on when life required it. To the band he was _little brother_, the nickname that had left Zira dizzy with affection and had left Crowley glaring at them as if they’d taken the humiliation to new heights, which was precisely the type of dramatic reaction one would expect from a sulky little brother.

They were there, all the pieces of him that those who surrounded him were treated to, and there was so much more, Zira was beginning to realise that. He wasn’t just a dog walker, or a guitarist, or the centre of a chosen family he had pieced together as a barricade against loneliness. He was the moon, a light fighting off the darkness; he was the first choice when it seemed as though the world was conspiring; he was, Zira understood, with a jolt that felt more like a memory than a realisation, the feeling of something safe, something to relax into, something that was beginning to feel more and more like home.

***

“McFlurry?” Crowley asked, as he tapped the screen in front of them to place their mammoth order. “Or are you more of a milkshake fan? I bet you are, aren’t you? Vanilla milkshake. Wouldn’t want to push the boat out.”

“I _will_ have a McFlurry, thank you very much. Galaxy, if you don’t mind.” Zira leaned forward to get a better look at the screen, marvelled at the wonder of technology that meant they could order late night fuel without even needing to speak to another person. Incredible. Next to him Crowley snickered, finding something hilarious in hearing Zira say the word _McFlurry_ with a straight face.

“Come on, angel, let’s get you home. Sun’ll be coming up if we take much longer.” Crowley took a ravenous bite out of a burger and held the door open, ushering Zira back out into the street.

McFlurry clutched in one hand and the other swinging lightly by his side, Zira wondered if this was what Raphael referred to as an _all-nighter_, if he had finally joined the ranks of those free spirits who came alive from dusk until dawn. It was a curious thing, seeing the city he knew so well in a wholly different light. London in the moonlit hours felt as though he had stepped into another world, as if there was another London he never knew existed until Crowley had tugged him out of his safe little box.

“You’re not supposed to be here.” Crowley came to a stop by an empty shopfront, where he was looking faux-sternly down at a girl sitting upright against the doorway, a cluster of blankets tangled around her legs like a mermaid’s tail.

“Piss off, I like looking at the stars.” She held his gaze, before breaking into laughter and accepting the bag he passed to her, unfurling the brown bag and pulling out a paper-wrapped burger.

“Tea,” he said, setting a takeaway cup down by her side and tucking a bank note underneath it. “And enough for the next couple of nights. If you need more for the hostel, you tell me.”

“Thank you,” her voice softened, thin lips pressed together into the beginning of a smile. “Who’s this then?”

“Oh, Zira this is my friend, Lauren. Lauren, this is Zira. We’re…”

“I’m a _groupie_.” As the night’s gin consumption danced a merry dance with the liquid sugar he had just sucked heartily through a straw, Zira extended a hand, beaming as he heard Crowley make a vaguely strangled sound next to him. He spotted a book splayed out next to her, turned his head to read the title along the cracked spine. “Oh, Bronte fan?”

“Not really.” Lauren rolled her eyes, glanced down at the book. “Heathcliff, what a wanker, eh?”

“What a wanker _indeed_.”

As Zira and Lauren fell into an animated debate about who exactly was the biggest wanker in literature (Lauren was fiercely team Holden Caulfield, whereas Zira could have spent all night spewing myriad reasons why Humbert Humbert was _the_ worst, without question) Crowley took a step back, watching the way the bookseller came to life. He had given it a good go at the pub, had ganged up on Crowley along with the rest of the band, had valiantly managed to navigate the multiple threads of conversation without getting too lost. There was still a reservation there, though, a sense that he was trying not to reveal too much of himself, that there was something he was keeping locked away. It was the stories that did it, Crowley realised, that brought him out of himself. When he could disappear behind somebody else’s words, step into another world, that was when Zira Fell was at his most fearless. It was quite something, to see a person bloom before your eyes.

“Well, Lauren, it was very lovely to meet you.” Book chatter all but exhausted for the evening, Zira shook her hand one more time to say goodbye. “Enjoy the rest of the book. You might like Agnes Grey a little more, I get the sense you might be more of an Anne girl, anyway.”

“I’ll look out for it.” Lauren laughed.

Zira waited until they reached the end of the street before speaking, voice soft with curiosity. “Why is she… She’s so young, educated. How-”

“Everyone’s got a story, angel.” Crowley strode onwards then, leaving Zira to pick up the pace lest he get left behind. The bookseller glanced back, saw Lauren take a sip of tea and rest the book on her knees, lit by the flickering glow from the shop next door. Something that might have been shame wound its way around his mind as he thought back to all the times he had avoided glancing into shop doorways, would keep his eyes trained straight ahead and walk right on by without so much as a word.

***

“Meeting you was like…waking up after the longest sleep.” It had come out of nowhere, the confession, but Zira let the words ring out, was too enraptured by the evening to try and claw them back. It was true, after all. Every noteworthy thing that had happened to him since that summer had Crowley at the heart of it.

They had adopted their usual position, Zira standing in the doorway of the shop, Crowley a foot away on the top step. They had already said goodnight, had exchanged pleasantries and promises to catch up before Lily’s Halloween party the next weekend. Still, there they stood, unable to turn away. It was in those moments, the ones that felt like they were building towards something that filled Zira with both excitement and dread, that a little voice in his mind seemed as though it was fighting for control.

_You don’t have to turn away every time you start to feel something, Zira. Don’t live your life in fear. Look at him, look at everything he makes you feel, don’t shy away from him. I know how this makes you feel, I know the how scared you are of it but he is safe, you know that, deep down. Time is precious, don’t waste it, not on fear._

It was warm, that voice, whispering words borne out of love. Those quiet urges to shake off fear and go boldly in the pursuit of happiness, it felt like something family would say. He laughed to himself, how very typical it was that the closest family he had was his own mind. It was tempting to listen, to push through long-held fears, to lean close enough that his lips could brush against Crowley’s and change absolutely everything that they had spent the last few months building brick by brick. But there was too much at stake. Too much to lose if it all went wrong. No, better to keep it the way it was. It was safe, friendship, he knew how to be a friend. _Still_, his mind bleated, incapable of letting it go, _what’s one kiss between friends?_

“Night then!” Zira cried briskly, cutting temptation short and stepping over the threshold into the safe haven of the shop, even if it was still a bit damp.

Crowley stepped back onto the pavement, gave Zira a wink before he turned to go. “You should live a little, angel, it won't kill you.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Happy hump day, everyone! I hope you're all having a good week. The next chapter will be coming on Saturday - I'm giving myself an extra day to fight off the SICKNESS that has been bestowed upon my person (I'm fine, it's just a cold but I'm leaning into the drama). However, a short story about an angel and demon's time in MOROCCO will be kicking off tomorrow so do look out for that if you're interested (it'll be going up here: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1467589) <3


	11. Closer

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Crowley reached out to pull the door open, withdrew his hand when he noticed Zira had fallen silent next to him. The routine of back and forth teasing they so easily fell into had begun to ebb away the closer they’d got to Lily’s house.

**October. St James’s Park, London.**

**8.30pm**

Crowley sighed happily to himself as a werewolf and a vampire sprinted past him, cackling to themselves as they raced for the bus. There was only one night a year when you could walk down the street in London and find two supernatural entities chasing after public transport and that night had finally arrived.

_Halloween_. It was Crowley’s favourite night of the year. The moment the sun set on Halloween night all bets were off. For one night only, everybody could hide behind a mask and throw caution to the wind. After all, everybody knew that nothing that happened on Halloween night counted. It was expected that rules would be broken, was near enough the point of the entire thing.

Lily’s house parties were the suff of legend. Every excruciating story that bound the band togetherhad taken place on one Halloween night or another. There was nothing that cemented friendship more deeply than witnessing each other’s most outrageous moments, swearing that each and every secret would be taken firmly to the grave. After a lifetime of bringing it up at every humiliating opportunity, of course.

Yes, Crowley loved Halloween. Loved every outlandish, debauched part of it, and that particular Halloween night, Crowley reasoned as he strolled towards the entrance of the park, had the potential to be the best one yet.

***

**8.45pm**

Zira was dithering. He stood over his desk in the back of the shop, shot of whisky gripped in one hand. It was his third drink. He _was_ going to be sensible that night, he just needed a dose of extra bravery to see him through the terror of meeting an entire house of strangers. Halloween was traditionally a night he left a bowl of mini chocolate bars on the top step of the shop and retreated upstairs as soon as it got dark, drawing the curtains and keeping the lights off to avoid detection. That year, though, he was simply brimming over with social invitations. Had the opportunity to be choosy, for once.

He thought back to the lunch he had had with Raphael earlier that week, how satisfying it had been to be able to turn down a Saturday night dinner reservation because he already had plans. It was, he knew confidently, the first time that had ever happened in all of his years of existence.

“Zira Fell,” Raphael had said, smiling proudly at him. “Am I going to have to start fighting for your attention, you social butterfly?”

“Give it a month and you might have to start booking time in with my social secretary.” Zira laughed, relished the feeling of having so much to look forward to, so much on the horizon. The joy of sitting down to debrief with Raphael after each new encounter was almost as much fun as the events themselves. Almost. “I’m going to a house party. One of Crowley’s bandmates.”

“Partying with the _band_? Aren’t you becoming quite the little hedonist?” Raphael beamed at him, relief that after those long, lonely years, perhaps Zira had found just the person to haul him reluctantly out of his shell. He had liked Crowley on sight, noticed the way they moved so easily around each other, as if they were dancing quietly to a rhythm the rest of the world couldn’t hear.

“Hmm,” Zira mused, eyebrows raising in mock-confusion. "No idea where I get it from.”

Back in the present, Zira was folding papers neatly in half and sliding them into one of the messy drawers of his desk. It was a drawer reserved for the unfettered hell of bureaucracy: trading licenses and tax returns and, now, regrettably, insurance claims. _No_, he scolded himself, _there will be no thinking about paperwork tonight. Tonight is for fun_. He chuckled to himself, wondered when exactly his idea of hell had transitioned into his idea of fun, assumed it had something to do with that wily dog walker and his very dangerous jeans.

With his desk tidier than it had been for the first time in years, the clock above the fireplace chimed out a reminder that he was going to be inexcusably late if he didn’t swallow his nerves and go to meet Crowley at the park. There was nothing else he could do to procrastinate, so he drained the last of the whisky from his glass, tucked a bottle of gin under his arm and left the shop, pocketing a couple of mini chocolate bars from the bowl on the top step in case he needed a snack later on. Never a good idea to drink on an empty stomach. Could cause all manner of chaos.

***

**9.15pm**

Despite leaving far later than he’d planned, Zira reached the park to discover Crowley was nowhere to be found. He huffed to himself, the dog walker’s absolute disregard for promptness a constant source of bickering between them. Zira reasoned that the world would grind to a halt if everybody displayed such a laissez-faire attitude towards timekeeping, while Crowley would just shrug and wonder why Zira was such a stickler for rules. It would undoubtedly be followed up with a breezy _live a little, angel_ and Zira would purse his lips, pretending the notion sounded absolutely ghastly.

Crowley came into view then, swaggering down the street as if he wasn’t fifteen minutes late. He was dressed all in black, as was customary, but with a distinctly Halloween-inspired twist: a pair of wings jutted up from his back, feathers shining onyx-black under the streetlights as he passed them. As he drew up alongside Zira, he rolled his eyes. “I told you it was fancy dress!”

Zira looked him up and down, taking in the details of his outfit: the dark glasses covering his eyes, snakehead buckle at the front of his jeans, the undulating serpent tattoo in front of his ear. “Good lord. I didn’t think you were serious.”

Crowley laughed, fumbling around in the bag that was slung over his body. He pulled out a wire halo that he deposited on Zira’s head. “Don’t worry, I thought you might conveniently forget. There you go, angel.”

Crowley leaned in to straighten the headpiece, slid the sunglasses back into his hair. It was then that Zira noticed his eyes, deep yellow irises that spread almost from corner to corner, a jet black slash of a pupil in the centre. The angel recoiled, blinking slowly as if he could almost feel them beneath his own eyelids. “Oh, don’t they hurt?”

“These?” Crowley pointed towards the contact lenses. “Not that bad when you get used to it. Feel like I’ve always had them.”

“Hmm, well, they look adequately spooky.”

“Sort of what I was going for, angel. Big spooky fan, me.”

“What are you supposed to be anyway, a demon?” Zira waved a hand in front of his face, tossing out the word _demon_ as if it wasn’t exceedingly obvious what Crowley was dressed as.

Crowley stared at him in despair, turned around to brandish his wings in Zira’s face. “What do I look like, an aardvark? Yes, I’m a demon. Straight from the pits of hell and all that.”

Zira brought up a hand and ran it elegantly around his halo, pursing his lips as he looked the demon up and down from head to toe. “Well, it is rather fitting I suppose.”

***

**9.30pm**

Crowley reached out to pull the door open, withdrew his hand when he noticed Zira had fallen silent next to him. The routine of back and forth teasing they so easily fell into had begun to ebb away the closer they’d got to Lily’s house. _He’s nervous_, Crowley realised, looking down at the angel’s hands, fidgeting with the hem of his jacket. He had to stop every so often, pause before their adventures began and remind himself that his comfort zone and Zira’s comfort zone were two very different sizes. While, for him, that night was one he’d been anticipating since November 1st of the previous year, for Zira it was a different beast entirely: a long night of socialising with strangers, something he understood was not his friend’s favourite activity.

He laid a hand on Zira’s forearm. “If you want to leave just let me know, okay? We can go back to the shop and pretend we can’t hear trick or treaters knocking on the door, I don’t mind.”

Zira nodded gratefully, though he had no intention of being the reason Crowley had to miss out on his favourite night of the year. He thought the shots of whisky would have had more of an impact. _Perhaps just a few more shots when you get inside_, he decided, _and then sniff out some dinner, you know what happens if you drink without anything to soak it up._

Crowley swung the door open and then they were swallowed up in a cloud of music, beer, and the distinct feeling that everything was about to change.

***

**10.30pm**

Zira was aware that remembering anybody’s names was a fruitless endeavour, given the nature of the night. It was all well and good committing names to memory but what good was it really going to do when he would be looking for Verity the Princess Zelda, Robin the Demogorgon, and Noah the adult-sized Chucky doll? Still, he was trying his best to commit faces to names in his memory, where their faces were visible, at least. Crowley was making the effort to dutifully introduce him to every friend they passed, sweetly made sure he was immersed in every conversation, knew the bookseller’s worst nightmare was to be left on the periphery. _Not a chance, _Crowley thought, _not on my watch._

It was easier to join in with Crowley by his side, the demon’s hand lingering on his lower back as he steered him from room to room, punch bowl to punch bowl. The cavernous buckets of cocktails were Lily’s crowning glory, responsible for post-Halloween hangovers that Crowley swore took the entire year to recover from. They had barely been there for an hour before Zira had taken quite an interest in the Putrified Pina Colada, muttering something under his breath about not drinking on an empty stomach before he went back in to refill his glass.

“Oh, lookie here!” Crowley threw his hands up into the air as he entered the next room to find his bandmates gathered on the sofa, hunched over Lily’s laptop and arguing about the playlist she had put together for the night. Music was, of course, the most integral part of the entire evening, and Lily was known for being precious about her playlists. With wireless speakers meticulously placed throughout the house for optimum ambience whichever room guests happened to find themselves in, she did not take kindly to anything interrupting her carefully curated musical choices.

“_No_, Sammy, we are _not_ adding your misery music to the playlist,” she hissed, as Crowley and Zira strolled into the room, Zira happily swigging from his cup of Putrified Pina Colada with a cat nestled under the other arm. The cats had made a beeline for him moments after they’d arrived, twirling around his legs and butting their heads against his shins to demand attention. He had obliged, of course, taking a particular shine to Lemmy, the black and white tomcat Crowley was sure hated every human who had ever existed. Except for Zira, apparently.

At the sound of Crowley’s voice, the others looked up and caught sight of them, cheering in approval with such enthusiasm Zira wondered if they knew something he didn’t. Lily plonked her laptop on Sammy’s lap and bounded up to Zira, flicking one finger against his halo. “Don’t you two look adorable together? A _couples_ costume.”

Crowley laughed, pulling her into a hug. “An angel and a demon? Doubtful. I’m having this jacket when you’re done with it, just so you know.”

Lily laughed, spinning around and letting the purple jacket flare out around her. With a white ruffled shirt and natural hair refusing to bow to the constraints of gravity, she was only one guitar away from the perfect Prince costume.

“And you came as…yourself?” Crowley reached out one hand to tug Sammy to his feet, furrowing his brow at the costume that looked a lot like what Sammy wore to every band practice.

Sammy sighed, bringing one hand to his temple as if he was already thoroughly tired of answering that question. “I’m Where’s Wally. Obviously.”

“No, that’s a jeans and stripy t-shirt combo with ideas above its station. You don’t even have glasses on. Lily, give me your eyeliner.”

Lily dutifully dug a black kohl pencil out of her jacket pocket and passed it to Crowley, who held Sammy’s face still with one hand and clenched the lid of the eyeliner in his teeth, pulling the pencil free with a satisfying _pop_.

“Get those demonic hands off of me.” Sammy shook his head, jabbing a finger accusingly towards Zira. “I don’t see you complaining that lover boy _literally_ came in bookseller chic. That token halo isn’t fooling anyone, that’s got you manhandling a coat hanger ten minutes before you left written all over it.”

“Yes, that’s true.” Lily exchanged a look with Sammy as they turned to Crowley, innocently wide-eyed and curious. “Why _does_ Zira get a free pass? Favouritism, is it?”

Without missing a beat, Crowley clutched Zira’s chin between his index finger and thumb and gestured at him with the other hand, uncapped eyeliner waving wildly in the air. “When you lot have a face like that you can have a free pass too.”

It was then that vocalist Dan came crashing in from the kitchen, tray of shot glasses and lime quarters in one hand, bottle of tequila in the other. It was well-timed, Zira thought, because one more off-hand compliment out of Crowley’s mouth and he might have swooned where he stood.

“Oh my _god_,” Crowley choked, all thoughts of sketching glasses on Sammy’s skin forgotten as Dan set down the tray and stood up, hands on his hips, awaiting their rapturous approval of his costume. “None of you bastards get to call my jeans tight ever again.”

“Feast your eyes, friends.” Dan turned in a slow circle, let his captive audience take in the full effect of the Rocky (of Rocky Horror fame) costume he had committed to. The costume, revealing as it was, had been quite the labour of love to prepare for, his wife sagging against the wall of their kitchen in hysterics earlier that evening as she had dutifully rubbed fake tan into every inch of his body that wasn’t covered by gold briefs that were so tight they made Crowley’s jeans look positively baggy. “And don’t stand too near me because this tan transfers.”

“Yes, my wall with never be the same again,” Lily lamented, running one hand sadly down the streak of bronze residue Dan had left when he strayed too close to the living room wall.

As Dan bent over (eliciting wails of protestations from the others, on account of the shortest of all known short shorts) to pour out a row of shots, Zira leaned in close to Crowley. “He seems lively.”

“First night drinking since Priya found out she was pregnant last year. Matrimonial solidarity, apparently,” Crowley explained.

“Shots for the band! Shots, shots, shots!” Dan ushered them over, handing out overflowing shot glasses until they all held one in each hand, trails of sticky tequila running down their wrists as they tried to hold them steady. Zira hung back, well aware that he might be partying _with_ the band but he was very much not _in_ the band.

“Three…two…_wait!_ Zira, what are you doing, man? Get over here!” Dan stopped his countdown with a wail and waved Zira over to them, just as Crowley deposited his shot glasses into the angel’s hands with a wink. “One! Go, go, go!”

Zira upended the first and then second glass of tequila in two burning mouthfuls. He swallowed the fiery liquid, and as they laughed and clinked their empty glasses together victoriously he was certain the warmth spreading across his chest wasn’t solely caused by alcohol alone.

In the bookseller’s pocket, two mini Mars Bars lay sadly abandoned, the importance of mid-party snacks all but forgotten.

***

**12am**

Zira couldn’t pinpoint the moment when he realised he’d forgotten to eat dinner. Couldn’t pinpoint much of anything, if he was honest. All he knew was that the music was dazzling, Crowley’s friends were delightful, and Crowley himself was looking positively _divine_. He’d disappeared to get drinks a moment before, leaving Zira quite happily bopping around in a crowd of strangers who had, for the time being at least, become more like friends.

“Come with me.” Lily laughed, beckoning Zira towards her across the makeshift dance floor in the living room and taking him by the hand as she dragged him into a nearby bedroom, slamming the door behind them.

On the opposite side of the room Crowley emerged from the kitchen, two cups of Most Haunted Margaritas in his hands. He watched Zira and Lily disappear, giggling, into a bedroom, and chewed slowly on his lip as he tried to squash the flare of jealousy in his chest. _Don’t be ridiculous. There’s a completely logical reason why they just crept off into a bedroom together when they thought you weren’t looking. He is not Lily’s type and, unless you’ve been reading the signals wrong for the past three months, Lily is most definitely not his type. Even if what is definitely not going on is going on in there…it’s fine. Lily is your friend, Zira is…well, who knows what’s going on there, one of the world’s great mysteries. Either way, if the universe has played a cruel trick on you and suddenly Lily and Zira are… It’s fine. Really. It’s completely fine._

And then the bedroom door flung open and Zira bounced up to him with a smile on his face that was so open and excited that Crowley almost kissed him there and then out of pure relief. Behind him, Lily leaned against the doorway with a pair of scissors dangling from one hand, nodding at Zira’s costume change with a grin on her face.

“Well, don’t you look positively heavenly?” Crowley laughed, sliding his fingers through Zira’s and twirling him around so the wrinkled bedsheet he was wearing like an angelic robe swung this way and that. A jagged head hole had been hastily cut in the middle of it, and Zira could have passed for a very sweet-faced ghost, if the halo hadn’t remained resolutely in tact.

“Thought I’d better get into the spirit of things. The _holy_ spirit.” He took the second cup from Crowley’s hand and drank deeply, let the sour tang hang on his tongue for a moment before he swallowed. There was something electric in that room, that cluster of people crowded together on the carpet, each of them burying themselves behind a different face for the evening. The music pounded from the speakers and they moved together, all of them, twenty conversations echoing out at once, the song’s lyrics winding around his brain until he felt dizzy with the energy of it all.

“Thought for a second you’d ditched me when you disappeared.” Crowley’s voice was light, on the edge of laughter, but there was something else hidden there.

Zira looked up at him, emboldened by too many servings of punch, and batted his eyelashes. “Now who’s jealous?”

“I am.” Crowley slid one arm around his waist, pulled him closer. “Indescribably so.”

***

**12.45am**

Zira leaned back, head resting against the door of the fridge. Crowley faced him, one forearm leaning against the fridge, thigh pressing gently against the angel’s as he leaned in close. “You seem merry.”

“Merry, yes.” Zira was feeling _something_, wasn’t sure if merry was the word he would have used. Energised, enamoured, on the edge of letting go, perhaps. “All the whisky back in the shop goes rather well with Halloween punch, who knew?”

“Whisky?”

“Courage shots before I left. Take the edge off, y’know.”

Crowley threw his head back in laughter, and his smile had never looked so dangerous, or so tempting. “And what,” he said, leaning in close enough that Zira could feel his breath against his cheek, "is making you so nervous you needed extra courage tonight?”

_You_, Zira thought, _and you know that, which is why you’re smiling like a devil._

“Lily said I’d find you in here! If you can’t find Crowley he’ll be in the kitchen, that’s what she said. How are you, mate?”

Crowley sighed in frustration, and both angel and demon turned their heads to the side to find a man dressed as the Incredible Hulk looking at them as if he’d just realised he’d walked in on the middle of something.

“Oh, er, sorry to break up an intimate moment. You must be Zira, I’m Jamal.”

_Well,_ Zira thought, _somebody must have mentioned me by name__, that’s interesting_. He trailed his arm slowly across Crowley’s body as he reached across to shake Jamal’s hand, felt the demon’s stomach muscles tighten at his touch.

“Lily’s boyfriend,” Crowley said, by way of explanation. “One of them anyway.”

They both laughed at that, descending into smalltalk while Zira tried and failed to stop tracing the outline of Crowley’s lips with his eyes. _The road not travelled_, he sighed, thinking how differently the next moments might have panned out if they hadn’t been interrupted. It was becoming a pattern, the tension building until it felt like leaning in was inevitable, only for something to pull their focus from each other at the last moment. Then again, something always seems to bring them back together in the end. Besides, the night was still young and Zira felt as though he had all the courage in the world stacked up and ready to go when they were finally alone together. What happens on Halloween stays on Halloween, wasn’t that what Crowley had said earlier?

“What are you two anyway?” Jamal paused to wave a half empty beer bottle between them, as if the halo and demonic contact lenses hadn’t made it quite clear enough.

Zira look the excuse to look back at Crowley, to stare into those snake eyes. “Yes, Crowley, what _are _we?"

As Crowley slid one hand up to cup Zira’s jaw, Jamal finally took his cue to leave, murmuring vague goodbyes as he hotfooted it out of the kitchen and left them mercifully alone.

“We, angel, are what they call a foregone conclusion.”

***

**1.30am**

Zira had always thought of Crowley as sure-footed, moving as fluidly through life as if he was being directed by music, so it was no surprise that he was so perfectly at home on the dance floor. As they danced, albeit drunkenly, Zira backed up against him, the angel was flooded with the image of Crowley when first met those weeks ago; sombre, lonely, and with a wall up so high he wasn’t sure he’d ever be able to scale it. _How wrong first impressions can be_, he thought.

On that balmy August evening when they had met it had felt as though a thousand possibilities lay in front of them. Though he had wiled away untold hours pondering where their pleasantly meandering relationship might lead, the idea of guzzling Halloween-inspired punch, donning a bed sheet and grinding up against the enigmatic dog walker he had so smoothly chatted up those weeks ago was definitely not on the list.

The deep beat of the music sped up as the vocalist purred the lyrics to the song, the music bouncing off of the walls and echoing around them. Zira’s mind was too hazy to catch all the words but the gist of the song was clear: let go and give into temptation.

Crowley’s breath panted against his neck as the demon’s fingers found their way to his hips, guiding them both as they moved to the music, Crowley’s chest pressed to his back so tightly that all Zira would have to do is turn his head to the side and their lips would touch. He heard Crowley murmur words against his hair and Zira leaned his head back against his chest. “What was that?”

“Are you tired, angel?” Crowley asked, words running together like a river. A river that primarily consisted of tequila and rum.

Zira shook his head, in no way ready for the night to be over. He would keep dancing until dawn if that’s what it took to keep Crowley so close to him. “Not in the slightest, why?”

The demon dropped his head, whispered a temptation into the angel’s ear to see if it would take root. “Thought perhaps you might want to get out of here, nice night time stroll…”

“Yes, now you mention it, absolutely knackered. Exhausted, even. Need to lay down immediately. Might need some assistance, too drunk to be left alone, you know how it is. Let’s go. Now.” Temptation well and truly accomplished, Zira peeled himself away from Crowley and grabbed for his hand, locking their fingers together before he had a chance to change his mind.

They wound their way through the pulsating crowd, tossing goodbyes over their shoulders but too busy wrapped up in each other to really register anybody’s responses. Sammy pulled back from kissing Edward Scissorhands for long enough to shoot Crowley a thumbs up, and they caught sight of Dan straddling the sofa in the living room and handing out shots to everybody who walked past. At least, they thought it was Dan; he’d acquired a rubber dinosaur mask from a mystery source so they couldn’t be sure.

Crashing out into the cold night air they staggered down the front steps, trying to silence each other’s laughter with hissed _shhhh_s that were, somehow, even louder. As they swayed down the street, arms wrapped around each other’s waists to ensure they stayed upright, Zira suddenly realised that not only was he seeing double, he was absolutely starving and his hunger needed to be sated immediately.

“Wait!” he wailed, one hand reaching out to grip Crowley’s forearm as he stopped dead on the pavement. Crowley looked at him, brow furrowed in confusion, as Zira dug around in his pocket until he gasped joyfully, pulling two mini Mars Bars free from his trousers and holding them out as if they were the most holy treasure. “I brought snacks!”

“Of course you did.” _God, you’re adorable._

“Brought you one too.” Zira passed one to Crowley, then turned his attention to inhaling his own chocolate bar in two huge bites, letting the sickly sweet chocolate and caramel soothe his soul, though he knew it would do little to calm his racing nerves.

“Of _course_ you did.” Crowley laughed, bit into the Mars Bar and watched as Zira closed his eyes, savouring the taste. _Good god, you are almost too adorable. No, not too adorable, utterly perfect._

“All that…punch. Petrifying Pina Colada…”

“Putrified,” Crowley interjected.

Zira nodded patiently, then continued with his point. “Putrified Pina Colada. Can’t drink on an empty stomach. Bad decisions.”

“Oh, by all means, go ahead and make them, angel.”

Zira jabbed a finger against his chest, swallowed hard as Crowley caught his hand and held it there, against his skin, for just a heartbeat. “_You_ are up to no good.”

“And _you_ are far too happy about it,” Crowley singsonged, opening his mouth to continue but snapping it shut as Zira let out a breathy sigh and broke into what might have been a run, or might have been a desperate stumble towards a late night oasis of culinary desire.

“Crepes!” Zira cried, slamming both hands against the counter of the mystifyingly late night crepe stand that Crowley could have sworn he had never seen before in his life. “Do you want one, dear?”

“I’ll just have a bite of yours.” Crowley leaned against nearby park railings, fished his phone out of his pocket and booked a taxi. They were far too drunk and he was far too impatient to walk all the way back to Soho. Not that he had any intention of _staying_ in Soho, none at all. Even so, it was polite to accompany your date for the evening to the door, wasn’t it? And he’d grown rather attached to their lingering goodbyes in the shop’s little doorway.

“You absolutely cannot beat a crepe.” Zira tossed the words out into the chilly air, not particularly directing them at anybody except the general population. He drew up alongside Crowley, brandishing a tightly wrapped package in one hand. “I got two, didn’t know how hungry you were. I don’t usually…share crepes.”

“Well, I guess that makes me special. Ah, cab’s here.” He nodded towards the sleek black car that pulled up alongside them.

“You’ll have to get back to Barnaby, I suppose,” Zira mused, and the disappointment in his voice was impossible to ignore.

One hand poised on the car door, Crowley turned back to him. “He’s off on a jolly over at the Shadwells’ actually, thought this might turn into a late night.”

_That’s…convenient,_ Zira thought, trying to swallow the bubble of desire that was rearing its head again. It had, if he was honest, reared its head so many times that night it was becoming something of a permanent fixture, that flicker of lust that left his stomach light and his heart pounding whenever Crowley turned and smiled at him, or narrowed his eyes ever so slightly in concentration, or merely happened to exist within his line of sight.

“Soho please, mate, Greek Street.” Crowley glanced back and his smile was so loaded with intent that Zira could do nothing other than grip the crepes to his chest and try not to sigh too loudly. “Maybe another stop after.”

The demon slid across the back seats, stretching back towards the open door when he saw Zira standing still on the pavement, steadying his breathing as if he’d just fallen under a spell. “What is it with you and taxis?”

“I don’t know.” Zira looked around, eyes darting from the empty seat to Crowley, as if he might find an answer there. “I don’t know what comes over me.”

Crowley laughed to himself. It was already a mad night and this, the two of them slinking off from the party to steal away together, felt like the maddest, most natural part of it all. “Get in, angel.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey all - hope you're having a lovely weekend and have many fun plans, tell me of your weekend shenanigans :D. This chapter title is taken from the Tegan and Sara song 'Closer' - it felt *rather* apt... 'Here comes the rush before we touch' and all that.
> 
> Thanks for your patience with me, I'm feeling decidedly less sick so I'm hoping the next chapter will be up on Monday (or Tuesday...but I'm aiming for Monday). I am exceedingly excited to write this next one! 
> 
> Oh, and the first part of the Morocco short story is live here: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20528282/chapters/48723452
> 
> <3


	12. (Can I Call You) Mine

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Zira scrambled to his feet, energised by a sudden sugar rush, and nodded towards the stairs, holding out a hand. “In that case, care to join me for a spot of demonic mischief?”

**October. Z. Fell and Co., London.**

Crowley had always found taxi rides calming, especially if they took place at night. There was something about being able to relinquish control, sit back and be a passenger that soothed him. His chin was resting on the heel of his hand, eyes fluttering closed before he jerked himself awake and resumed staring at the city lights flashing by the window.

He was drifting off again, tiredness stemming from a combination of the late hour and more alcohol than was sensible for any human to consume, when he felt a hand curl around his knee, accompanied by a mischievous cackle. He looked across to find Zira with his knees tucked up to his chest and his cheek resting against them, looking every inch a perfectly innocent angel, if it hadn’t been for the wicked grin on his face.

“You’ll regret it,” Crowley said with a laugh, turning back to stare out of the window as a distraction that he already knew was doomed to fail. He was drunk. Zira was drunk. It was a disaster waiting to happen, albeit a disaster he was extremely ready to get on board with.

A moment later Crowley shivered as two fingertips gently walked up his leg from knee to thigh, and they didn’t seem poised to stop in a designated platonic zone. Biting his lip as both a diversion and as self-flagellation for putting a stop to something he very much did not want to put a stop to, he reached out to wrap his fingers around Zira’s wrist and move his hand back to the no man’s land of the middle seat.

“You’re way too drunk for this.”

With a wail that saw their taxi driver jump up a few inches in fright, Zira bellowed plaintively in Crowley’s direction as he ran one finger in slow circles across his open palm. “Liquid courage!”

_How am I the sensible one? _Crowley asked, tossing the silent question into the ether as if something, or someone, might answer back. _I’m supposed to be the bad influence. All that is holy give me strength, I cannot resist this. I can resist everything except temptation. Who said that? Somebody wise. Presumably somebody holed up in the back of a taxi with a frisky angel who cannot keep his hands to himself._

Crowley pulled himself out of his stream of (barely)-consciousness and grabbed Zira’s hand a moment before it strayed into his lap. He pulled him closer, dropping his voice as he risked a furtive glance to the central mirror to make sure the taxi driver wasn’t listening. “Listen, I am not a man of strong will, you know this. If you do that one more time I am not going to be able to bid you a chaste goodnight at the door and then leave.”

“That’s what I'm counting on,” Zira purred, with all the confidence of, well, a bookseller filled to the brim with liquid courage. He leaned in closer, let his lips hover next to Crowley’s ear as he whispered exactly what it was he was counting on.

“_Jesus!_” Crowley felt his eyes widen as a shiver of desire shuddered through him. “I usually can’t even wink at you without you looking vaguely terrified and now you’re talking about…”

“Guys.” The taxi driver’s voice cut through their whispered conversation that was, apparently, not as subtle as Crowley thought. “Settle down back there.”

“Oh, I fully intend to settle down on _something_, my good man,” Zira piped up happily, beaming at the driver’s reflection in the mirror. The driver held his gaze for a moment, then sighed and turned his attention back to the road.

“What is it with you and taxis?” Crowley hissed. “This is how we got kicked out last time. Long walk back to Soho, remember?”

“Kicked out?” Zira wrinkled his nose, shrinking back in confusion. “When did we…? What are you talking about?”

Crowley shook his head, the memory of shamefully hotfooting it out of a cab under the disapproving eye of a taxi driver disappeared almost as suddenly as it had arrived. _Strange_, he thought, _I could have sworn…_ “Nothing. Ignore me. All that punch, plays havoc with the mind.”

It was one thing to gaze at each other across a busy room, to lean in close on the dance floor when there was music setting the tone and a crush of bodies giving them anonymity that felt like permission. Encouragement, even. There was a certain kind of energy at a social event in a confined space, a heat that set a precedent that anything could, and probably should, happen. It was easy to flirt then, to push boundaries further and further, to fall into that back and forth that sagged heavily with subtext. Every drink, every shared look, every lingering touch of skin on skin, it was pointing in one direction. Crowley knew it, he was sure even Zira knew it, and there was something in the idea of both of them knowing it that left him nervous. It had caught him off guard, that feeling, as it slowly wound itself around him in the taxi. Yes, it was easy when you were tip-toeing around the subject on a crowded dance floor but when it was just the two of you, alone, friendship hanging in the balance, dice stacked and ready to land where they would, it was funny how quickly your confidence could ebb away.

“Stop staring at me,” he smiled, feeling Zira’s eyes trained on him. “Eat your crepe, it’ll get cold.”

“I’ll eat _your_ crepe,” came Zira’s snippy little reply.

Crowley closed his eyes, sighed, and prayed for either confidence or restraint. The former, preferably, given that the latter had never been his strong suit. A lot less fun as well, restraint. “I heard that.”

“Well, Crowley, I’ll be honest with you: you were supposed to.”

_I’m going to bottle it_, Crowley realised, with mounting horror. _I’m going to bid him a merry night and watch that perfect angel walk away from me, I know I am._

That other voice came then, that quiet voice that sounded as though it was all out of patience. _Get it together, man, you’ve been thinking about this every night for the last week. This is exactly how you hoped the night would end, what the hell are you so scared of?_

_I’m scared that we’ll wake up tomorrow and something will have changed. I’m scared I’ll hurt him, somehow, without realising. I’m scared of how much I want this. I’m scared that I already feel too much, that doing this is going to make it impossible to turn away. I’m scared that, for him, this is just about tonight. What happens on Halloween stays on Halloween, that’s what I told him, what if this is just-_

“Crowley!” Zira gripped onto his arm like a vice, wrenching him out of his internal battle with two forces that seemed to be fighting inside his mind. “Did you see that? Tell me you saw that.”

They had come to a stop outside the shop and Zira was all but plastered against the car window, one hand pointing frantically towards Z. Fell and Co.

“See what?”

“The _sword_,” he hissed, lowering his voice as the driver peered round at them, presumably wondering if the renegade angel and demon were planning on vacating the cab at any point that night. “Couldn’t you see it through the window? It was _glowing_ as we pulled up. I told you! Whenever it thinks I’m not looking…”

“Guys, not that hearing about your flaming sword isn’t enchanting but I’ve got other people to pick up.” The driver’s voice cut through Zira’s frantic whispering and Crowley found himself floundering, wondering whether following Zira into the shop was too forward when he hadn’t _technically_ been invited back. The intention had hung unspoken between them, sure, but he knew how precious Zira was about his space. Maybe an evening of drunken dancing was quite enough for one evening; the bookseller did have more _delicate_ sensibilities, after all. It would be easier to bottle it, to let nerves get the best of him and spend the rest of the night lamenting his own cowardice as he tried to sleep, alone, in the flat.

“Make sure you drink water before you go to sleep or you’ll have a killer hangover in the morning.” Crowley kept his voice light, leaving no room for disappointment to shine through.

“Make me,” Zira laughed, taking his hand and tugging him across the seats as if it was the most natural thing in the world. “Come in, even if it’s just for a while, I need to show you something.”

_Well, _Crowley thought, _I might as well see what he wants to show me, rude not to…_

***

“You’ve lived here all this time and you’ve never seen it before?” Crowley swallowed a mouthful of crepe, crispy batter swirled through with tart lemon juice and sugar, then passed the wrapped late-night snack back to Zira, who was laying next to him against the floorboards in the back room of the shop.

“Not once.” Stomachs to the ground, they had been passing the last remaining crepe back and forth while staring wondrously at the faint symbols that seemed to be burned into the wooden floor. “But it must have been there this whole time.”

“What does it _mean_?” Crowley leaned in close, squinting as he turned his head this way and that, trying to make sense of the pattern. It felt vaguely familiar, as if he might have seen it once in a book or on somebody’s T-shirt at the club. There was something otherworldly about the symbols, as if they were a doorway to another world. He laughed quietly, alcohol playing havoc with his imagination.

“No idea.” Zira shrugged. “They would have just stayed buried under the rug forever if it wasn’t for the flood.”

Crowley chuckled, reaching out to run a finger across one of the symbols. “Something cosmic in that.”

“Oh, this is heavenly, I feel like I’m in Paris.” Zira closed his eyes, mysterious symbols momentarily forgotten as he swallowed the last mouthful of food. Crowley watched him, smiled softly at the unparalleled joy that demolishing a delicious treat gave him. He reached out to sweep a cluster of sugar crystals from the corner of the angel’s mouth, thumb swiping over his lips. Zira opened his eyes, smiling, caught Crowley's thumb gently between his teeth, tongue flicking lightly over the soft skin.

_This is it_, Crowley thought, sucking in a breath as leaned forward, _this is the moment. Let’s-fucking-gooo._

_“Angels?”_

The word bounced around the back room of the shop, an echo so distant it was as if somebody was calling from the top of a faraway hillside, their voice carried on the wind until it was a thin sound, barely audible.

Crowley’s head snapped back as he stared around the room, and when his eyes met Zira’s he saw fear etched on the angel's face.

“Crowley, please tell me you heard that.”

_“Where are you? Can you hear me? Stay together, stay hidden.”_

Zira looked down, saw his hand resting on the symbols, a faint blue glow emanating out from them. He snatched his hand back, felt a cool wash of dread soak into his skin and when he looked at Crowley, though he remained silent, he knew the demon had heard it too.

A thunderous sound pounded against the pavement outside the shop and they jumped in unison, Crowley reaching out to wrap his hand around Zira’s. Outside, a group of teenagers sprinted past, shouting into the night air for their friend to wait up.

Crowley exhaled a laugh, bravado reappearing as he wiggled his fingers in Zira’s direction as if he was casting a spell. “Letting the night get to you? Must be your _angelic_ aura. They do say the veil between worlds is at its thinnest tonight.”

As he turned away he heard a little huff reverberate out from Zira’s direction as he plonked the wire halo on top of Crowley’s head. “Now you’re the angel. You deal with the veil.”

_Just when I think it’s impossible for you to get any more adorable. You will be the death of me, you beautiful little bookseller. _Crowley grinned, shrugging out of his wings and sitting up to slide the elastic over Zira’s arms and tug it up onto his shoulders until the wings were resting against his back. “And now you’re the demon.”

Zira scrambled to his feet, energised by a sudden sugar rush, and nodded towards the stairs, holding out a hand. “In that case, care to join me for a spot of demonic mischief?”

***

By the time Crowley had drunkenly crawled his way upstairs Zira was already spread-eagled across the bed, eyes closed and wings scrunched up behind him against the headboard. Crowley hung back in the doorway, let himself take a moment to watch the rhythmic rise and fall of Zira’s chest as his breath slowed and sleep threatened to claim him for the night.

_There will be other nights_, he thought, smiling fondly at the angel as he retrieved the washing up bowl from the kitchen and slid it next to the bed, just in case, _there will be so many other nights for this. _He padded forward into the room, picked up the empty glass he found on Zira’s cluttered bedside table and stole away into the bathroom (carefully, given the new flooring hadn’t yet arrived, much to Zira’s unparalleled irritation) to fill it with water. A brief but eventful rummage in the medicine cabinet rewarded him with a bounty of paracetamol and he popped four out of the blister packet, swallowing two himself and leaving two on the bedside table along with the water.

He had turned to go, to let himself out of the shop and head resignedly home, when Zira opened one eye and stared at Crowley’s retreating silhouette. When he spoke his voice was insistent and he sounded two things: very much awake and very demanding indeed. “Tuck me in.”

Crowley turned back, running his tongue along his teeth as he saw Zira sitting up. “Are you always so demanding in the bedroom?”

“Don’t pretend that’s not precisely what you came here to find out. Nobody likes a coy demon, Crowley.”

“I’m not _coy._ I think I’ve made my intentions very clear.” He took a step closer to the bed, a step closer to the point of no return.

“Clear as mud. _Zira, come and watch me cavort on stage in my devilish jeans. Zira, let me rub up against you accidentally on purpose at every given opportunity. Oh, but Zira I’m not going to choose you at speed dating. Zira…_”

Rolling his eyes, Crowley came to a stop at the edge of Zira’s bed and looked down at him. “Oh, here we bloody go. You are never going to let me forget that.”

“Of course not, you broke my heart.” Zira chased the words with a quiet laugh, but the hurt in his voice floated to the surface.

Crowley gave him a little pout of sympathy, reaching out to rake his fingers through the bookseller’s hair. “Don’t say that, angel. I am sorry about that, really.”

“I’ll forgive you as soon as you tuck me in. Tightly.”

_Hard to ravage you when you’re tucked in but okay, I’ll go with it. Sheets can be tossed asunder. _Crowley knelt up on the bed, felt his head swim with rum as he leaned over Zira to tuck the duvet under his arms, pinning them to his sides as if he was an angelic little burrito. _Of all the ways I thought tonight might end, _he thought to himself, as he forced the duvet under Zira’s knees, the bookseller cackling from the head of the bed, _this scenario never got a look in. _He imagined the text he would receive from Sammy in the morning asking for a full debrief of the night’s shenanigans. _Well, Sammy, I ate a crepe and tucked him into bed. No, I didn’t stay. Yes, I’m fit to burst. Like…bloody…Vesuvius._

Crowley picked up the glass of water, trying to steady his shaking hand as he brought it safely to rest against his chest. He sank back down on the bed, felt the soft outline of Zira’s leg pressing against his back. “You need to drink this. It’s the only hope. If you don’t… You don’t even want to think about the hangover you’ll have in the morning.”

“Water can’t save me now,” Zira turned his face away, resigned to his fate. If he closed his eyes the room began to spin. Under the duvet he gripped the sheet in a fist, hoped if he held on tightly enough the bed might stop moving.

“I'm not leaving until you drink this.” Crowley proffered the glass in Zira’s direction, blinking slowly to try and inject some moisture into his dry eyes. He was only supposed to keep the contact lenses in for…an amount of hours that was escaping him, definitely less time than he’d been wearing them for. In response, the bookseller flailed his arms uselessly under the duvet.

A wicked smile spread across his face then, as if he’d just stumbled across a devilish loophole. “So if I don’t drink it, you have to stay?”

“If I stay we won’t be able to look each other in the eye tomorrow and you know it.” Crowley swallowed tightly, tried to focus on the judgement he might receive from Sober Crowley in the morning if he woke up in the bookseller’s bed. If he forgot about judgement for a moment, though, there was nothing he wanted more.

Zira sighed, face softening as he looked up at him, and the demon felt another shred of his resolve fade away into the ether. “Six thousand years and you’re still going to make me wait?”

“Don’t be dramatic, angel, it hasn’t been that long.” Crowley knelt up on the bed and brandished the glass in Zira’s direction. “Come on, you’re supposed to be an angel, hydration is next to godliness, or something.”

“Well in that case, get pouring.” Zira flopped back against the pillow and opened his mouth.

“You know,” Crowley mused, swinging one leg over Zira’s body until he was straddling his hips. He sat back, revelling in the way Zira’s jaw jumped as he gritted his teeth, a look of abject torment draping itself across his features. A second later he felt it, an almost imperceptible motion of the bookseller’s hips grinding up against his, but it was unmistakeable. _There it is_, he thought to himself, _that’s what I’ve been waiting for_. “When you invited me back I didn’t think forcing half a pint of water down your throat was what you had in mind.”

“Trust me,” Zira murmured. “It wasn’t. Come on then, hydrate me, demon.”

“Hold still.” Crowley leaned over him, one hand braced against Zira’s chest to steady himself, the other holding the glass of water just above his lips. He tilted the glass down and, to his credit, a few drops did make it into Zira’s mouth. The rest, however, trickled steadily down the angel’s neck and proceeded to soak into his t-shirt until the neckline clung wetly to his skin. “Well, that went about as well as expected.”

“I can’t sleep in this,” Zira wailed, shaking his head and spraying Crowley with droplets of water. “I’ll get pneumonia.”

“Such a bloody drama queen,” Crowley hissed under his breath, rolling his eyes and trying his hardest not to swoon with affection as Zira looked up at him, puppy dog eyes well and truly weaponised. “All right, sit up, and _then_ I’m going home because if you look at me like that for much longer I’ll…” He trailed off then, alcohol robbing him of the ability to be in any way articulate. There was the feeling of teetering on the edge of an open aeroplane, parachute strapped to his back, adrenaline pounding as he had a second to decide whether or not he was going to jump. He felt Zira shift underneath him as he shook his arms free from the confines of the sheet, leaning up on his elbows until he was sitting up, one hand snaking around Crowley’s hips and coming to rest against the back pocket of his jeans.

“What?” the angel said, and his voice was soft, a playful edge to it. “You’ll what?”

As something flickered across Crowley’s face, something that might have been anticipation but looked a lot more like nervousness, Zira realised that, for once, he had caught the demon off guard. It thrilled him, being able to shake the facade that had always seemed innately unshakeable. “Nervous?” Zira asked, sliding his hand up Crowley’s thigh to grip his wrist and guide it to his own waist. 

_Terrified, Crowley _thought as he swallowed hard, pulling Zira closer until he was sitting up and there was only a hair’s breadth between them. _Because it’s you, because of what you already mean to me, because of how much I’ll feel afterwards. Because I don’t know how I’ll be okay if you don’t feel the same._ “A bit.”

“Ah, and I thought you were always so _confident_.” Zira reached forward, fingers undoing the next button of Crowley’s shirt, and then another for good measure. 

“You can’t sleep in this,” Crowley echoed, running one hand across the damp hem of Zira’s t-shirt. “You’ll get pneumonia.”

He blindly slid his hands to Zira’s t-shirt, pulling it over his head and throwing it vaguely downward. He didn’t see where it landed, it didn’t seem to matter much, he was too busy gazing down at Zira, heart pounding at the way he was staring back up at him with absolute need in his eyes. He leaned down, running his hands down the length of Zira’s arms until their fingers were tangled together and they were poised in the darkness, forehead to forehead, so close it would only take one of them to move an inch, a breath, and their lips would touch.

“Such restraint,” Zira whispered, as Crowley closed his eyes and tried to pull his drunken brain back from the brink.

_Calm. Yourself. Down. You were supposed to get him a glass of water and be on your merry way, not grind up against each other until you both give in and inevitably ruin whatever magic this friendship is. It’s not friendship, though, is it? Hardly platonic, what he whispered to you in the cab. Not usually how you put your friends to bed, is it? When have you ever pinned Sammy to the bed and thought about nothing other than ripping his clothes off? Why are you thinking about Sammy, for god’s sake? Actually, that’s helping. Just keep your eyes closed. Don’t look at him. If you look at those eyes it’s game over, you know it is._

_Let’s be rational about this. As rational as you can be in this state. Well, that’s con number one, isn’t it? You’re drunk. You both are. You won’t remember this in the morning. Okay. Pros and cons. The cons are that you’re drunk, you will destroy your friendship, and you made the mistake of eating an onion bhaji earlier. The pros are that you would get to kiss Zira, and that cheery little bastard could just be the love of your life, you never know. Not much of a debate is it? It’s do or die._

It reared its head then, that other voice, the one that occasionally butted into his stream of consciousness and encouraged him to do whatever it was he was trying to talk himself out of. _Just bloody kiss him, you idiot._

In the end it didn’t matter what his conscious or subconscious told him to do, because it was Zira who pressed his lips to Crowley’s and set everything else that was to come in motion.

The bookseller broke away from him after a heartbeat and it was over so quickly Crowley was left reeling, unsure whether he’d imagined the entire thing. As he tried to reconcile exactly what had happened, Zira let himself fall back against the pillows, laughing as he revelled in the culmination of his own drunken courage.

“Sorry,” Crowley said, sitting back and running one hand through his hair, fighting to swallow the grin on his face. “Didn’t quite catch that.”

“I believe,” Zira replied, one hand holding onto Crowley’s thigh as he sat up, “I was leading you astray.”

“Are you trying to…tempt me, angel?” _Because temptation well and truly accomplished, lead me straight into the pits of hell, I will follow you to the ends of the earth as long as you kiss me again and again and swear you’ll never stop._

“That depends.” _Oh_, Zira thought giddily, _I am enjoying this far too much. Is this what it’s like to have confidence? I could get used to this, the way he’s looking at me as if I might be something to want, something to desire._ “Are you tempted?”

In a little bookshop in Soho an angel and a demon stared at each other in the darkness, faced everything they were so scared of as the last moment of _before_ ticked on, seconds away from transitioning into _after_. Crowley quietly dreaded the notion that in the morning Zira would see him in the glaring spotlight of daytime, sees his flaws lit up in a halo, and run a mile.

Zira, creature of habit that he was, couldn’t shake that fear of everything changing, of something so close to perfection becoming tainted, beginning to twist into something he didn’t understand, something that would swell out of control until his own emotions became too much to contain. He stared into those snake eyes, saw his own fear reflected there, and felt everything around him slow down as a gentle voice stepped in and filled his mind with calming whispers. _This is exactly where you’re supposed to be, Zira. It will always seem too much, what you feel for him, but you cannot control it. It just is, and it will be, always. I know it’s terrifying, I know it feels like madness but this is home. He will never hurt you, I promise you that._

Crowley took the angel’s face in his hands, thumbs softly running across Zira’s cheeks and down to his lips, those pale blue eyes staring into his as the mood shifted. Zira tightened his grip on Crowley’s waist, the other palm resting against his chest as they paused, silently, letting the desperate hope that that night would be the moment where the rest of their story began hang between them. And then there was only Crowley leaning close and kissing him so gently that Zira felt as though he might break apart at any moment, that he was the most precious thing in the world. There was the sweetest feeling of drowning, his head spinning as he kissed him back and yes, it was finally happening, it was real, every touch and look and almost-moment had led them there, to where everything else would begin.

He tasted coconut rum and lemon and desire on the demon’s tongue, felt the weight of his body pressing against him as Crowley slid one arm down to his back and eased him down against the mattress. Then there was the delicious sensation of the demon’s leg sliding maddeningly slowly between his until they were so close it felt as though they were two halves of a whole, a single heart beating to the same rhythm.

Lost to the moment, Crowley gathered Zira’s wrists in one hand, pinned them to the bed above the angel’s hair, dropped his head to Zira’s neck and let his tongue run a slow, meandering path from collarbone to jaw, pausing to murmur words into his ear that were so sweet Zira felt as though he’d been waiting a lifetime to hear them. “Why did we wait so long?”

“Because we’re cowards.” Zira opened his eyes, stared straight up at the ceiling in an attempt to keep some semblance of control. An impossibility, given the way Crowley’s hips were driving into his as the demon gently pressed a trail of kisses down his chest.

“I wasn’t sure you wanted this, not until tonight.” Crowley’s words were muffled against his skin, and then Zira felt teeth nip against the side of his ribs and it was all he could do to just lay there and let a groan rumble out from his throat.

“Please tell me you’re joking.” He sat up then, elbows supporting his weight as he looked down at Crowley in the almost-darkness. “I’ve been following you around like a puppy for weeks. _Months_.”

“It felt too good to be true.” The demon clambered forward, pressing his forehead to Zira’s, felt the angel’s hair brush against his skin as he dropped his voice to a whisper, as if the words meant too much to be spoken any other way. “_You_ are too good to be true.”

_I know this is just for tonight_, Crowley thought, as he brought one hand up to tangle in Zira’s hair, those perfect curls. _I know everything will be different in the morning, that you’ll fold into yourself again. And that’s okay. Even if it’s just this once, it’s okay. It’s more than okay. _Shaking away worries about the next day, that was Future-Crowley’s problem, he slid his other hand down between them, felt the warm skin of Zira’s stomach under his palm as he caught the angel’s lip between his teeth and pressed down gently, and then harder, as Zira moaned into his mouth.

The angel sat up, pushing Crowley back, fingers finding the final button of the demon’s shirt and tugging it loose until it slithered down from his skin, landing coiled in the sheets like a serpent. Crowley dipped his head to kiss him again, felt the wire halo spring forward and collide with the headboard.

“Mind the halo.”

“Fuck the halo,” Crowley growled, tearing it off of his head and slinging it into the same wasteland Zira’s t-shirt had sailed into.

And then Zira was on top of him, knees straddling either side of his hips to pin him down against the mattress, hands circling his wrists, teeth catching the taut skin of his chest. Panting desperately into the silent room, all Crowley could do was try and remember to breathe as Zira’s lips trailed lower and lower, mercilessly slowly. _Don’t you dare stop, not now, not ever._

The angel let go of one of his wrists for long enough to fiddle unsuccessfully with the top button of his jeans. “For god’s sake,” Zira hissed, letting go of his other wrist. Crowley barked out a laugh, leaned up on his elbows to look down as Zira swore under his breath, index fingers and thumbs slipping uselessly against the button. “Why is it so bloody stiff?”

“I believe that’s the point, angel.”

“Oh, _really_, Crowley? You know exactly what I meant.” Zira looked up at him, a shadow silhouetted in the darkness, and drank in every angular, beautiful piece of him. The button came loose, finally, and Zira bent low to press his lips against the soft skin above Crowley’s hip, one hand tugging at the waistband of his jeans to pull them down over his thighs. “Christ, these _are_ tight.”

“Now is not the time to start on my jeans.” He sat up, kicked them off and wrapped one hand around Zira’s neck, pulling him close, groaning in bliss as he felt the angel’s fingers curl around his thigh. Suddenly he felt dizzy with the relief of it, breathless, as if he was hurtling through infinite blackness. “I swear on all that is holy, if you make me wait any longer, Aziraphale…”

“What?” Zira pulled back a fraction, brow furrowing. “What did you call me?”

“I’m sorry. Don’t know what’s wrong with me. Overexcited. Might be a bit delirious.” Crowley punctuated each sentence with a kiss. To his comfort, he heard Zira laugh.

“I don’t care what you call me, as long as you call me yours.”

They leaned together for another kiss but this time it was tender, achingly slow, as if they had eternity to give to each other. As they pulled away, Crowley ran the back of one finger down Zira’s jaw. “Mine.” And then he reached for Zira’s hand, brought it up to his own face. “Yours, to the end of everything.”

“Are you trying to seduce my mind as well as my body, Mr Crowley? That was rather smooth.”

“It sounded good in my head. I’m drunk. Leave me alone. Kiss me again.”

Happy, euphoric even, to oblige, Zira planted a kiss on his lips, one hand sliding up the nape of the demon's neck to get lost in his hair as he dropped his head to find that one spot between Crowley's neck and jaw that left him whimpering. “Say it.” Zira pulled back, voice throaty with desire, felt a part of himself become untethered as a long-buried memory reared its head. “Say it again, my love, it’s been so long.”

“Yours, always.” As they kissed, Crowley was hurtling through the blackness again, fire and stardust and forests flashing on and off like beacons in the night. There was the feeling of something shaking free, something dormant unfurling inside him. “God, I’ve missed you, angel.”

Hands cupping either side of Crowley’s jaw, Zira looked back at him, a chink of moonlight filtering in between a gap in the curtains and slashing the demon’s face into two halves. Suddenly they were no longer tangled in the sweaty sheets of his bed, and he was no longer wholly himself. They were standing by a window looking out across the city, hand in hand, snowflakes fluttering down in front of the glass. They were kissing on a clifftop as the sun set in front of them; dancing forehead to forehead, backlit by a single candle; curled up on a sofa bickering about what to eat, hands wrapped around wineglasses, legs entwined. It was overwhelming, the rush of love and peace and absolute contentment, the feeling that he had paradise clutched in his hands, the promise of eternity beside the only one that had ever, ever mattered to him. It was the feeling of finding his way _home_.

It was gone then, that rush of a memory. No, a dream, it couldn’t have been a memory. Zira shook his head, felt something in his body begin to cloud over. It was…oh. Oh no. “Oh, no, no, no.”

Crowley, who had been softly stroking the angel’s hair while gazing at him as if he was a priceless treasure, tore himself free from his own reverie, kicked into action as he realised what was about to happen. He scrambled down for the washing up bowl he’d left by the side of the bed, brandished it in front of Zira and squeezed his eyes closed, wincing as he heard the wet sound of a mouthful of vomit hitting the plastic.

“Nooo.” Zira’s voice echoed mournfully around the room and there was the distinct feeling of dust settling in the wake of chaos. He peered into the bowl, immediately wished he hadn’t, and bent over against his knees, retching again. “Don’t look at it, Crowley, don’t you dare. You’re holding my vomit. We’ve crossed a line.”

“_That’s_ the line we crossed tonight, sure.” Resolutely keeping his eyes above bowl-level, Crowley swung his legs off of the bed and walked shakily into the bathroom. Head swimming, he deposited the bowl’s contents in the toilet, exhaustion began to clamour for attention in his brain. It had been a long night. A very long night. A long, eventful, ridiculous, brilliant night.

When he returned to the bedroom Zira was almost asleep, curled up under the blankets with his cheek resting on his hands. Crowley sat down next to him, stroked his hair back from his clammy skin and pressed a kiss to his forehead. He ferreted around on the floor until he found his jeans. “Not _that_ tight,” he murmured, jumping into them and doing up the top button single-handed, just to prove a point, though there was nobody else awake to witness it.

Zira stirred at the sound of his voice, reaching out for his hand. “Are you leaving?”

“Oh, I thought…”

“Stay, please. I want to wake up with you.” Zira’s voice was so quiet, so sweetly pleading, that even if he had wanted to leave he would have been powerless to do anything other than jump right back out of his jeans and climb into the little bed next to the bookseller.

As he slid an arm around Zira’s shoulders and the angel snuggled against his bare chest, it felt like crossing another line, one of many that they had drunkenly skyrocketed past that night. It was deeper, that line, an intimacy that stretched beyond anything physical; the desire to fall asleep in somebody's arms, to wake up with a warm body pressed to your own skin, holding you through the night.

“You changed everything,” Zira murmured drunkenly, as he began to drift off again.

“Hmm?” Crowley kissed his hair, smiling in the darkness. He laid awake, trying to prolong the magic of the night until he couldn’t fight against tiredness any more. _Just like I always say_, he thought, as he surrendered to sleep, _Halloween: best night of the year._

“It’s like you lit up every star in my sky.” Zira was asleep a heartbeat after he finished his sentence, the words hanging unheard in the air as Crowley slept next to him.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> WELL, my friends, we're not in Kansas any more. Hope you enjoyed. Fun fact: this is the longest chapter so far out of *both* parts. I need a coffee and a lay down now.
> 
> Next chapter is coming on Thursdayyy and Morocco (chapter two) is on the horizon too.
> 
> As always, I hope your Monday wasn't too Mondayish <3


	13. Easy Like Sunday Morning

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Every little action, whether it was refilling Zira’s glass or freeing his right eye from its demonic sheath, felt insurmountable against the backdrop of the hangover from hell.

**November. Z. Fell and Co., London.**

Crowley awoke with a start that thundered through his body, cold sweat slipping down his forehead into one eyebrow as he unfurled his right eye, eyelid creaking open to take in the unfamiliar surroundings. The first thing he registered was the pain, as if somebody had rubbed a palmful of grit into his eye. The second thing he registered was the hot, muggy air in the room, hanging thickly in a fug of sweat and sweet alcoholic breaths and something acidic, something that he would have wagered had been food before it made its glorious evacuation from the gullet from whence it had been swallowed. He opened and closed his mouth a couple of times, ran his tongue along the roof of his mouth. He was not, it seemed, the guilty party on that front.

_Where am I, _he thought desperately, slowly craning his neck to study the room he was in, limited by the curtains that were blocking out all light but a stray sunbeam. It was late then, mid-morning at least. Work was going to be a write off, as was customary for November 1st. At least it was a Sunday, not that he had much planned anyway. No, a lazy hangover day sounded perfect. First, though, the mystery of where the hell he had ended up. He had a sneaking suspicion he knew exactly who this room belonged to, and the idea both thrilled him and filled him with dread.

_I…don’t…know…this…place. Oh my god, what did I do?_ He took in the stacks of books leaning against the wall in the corner of the room. _Oh…_ He saw a newspaper folded on the chair under the window, all but one answer filled out in swirling handwriting he was already very well-acquainted with. _OH…_ And then he spotted the bow tie folded neatly of the arm of the chair. _OH. GOD._ He felt a body shift next to him in the bed. _I didn’t. Oh, god, tell me I didn’t._ As quietly as he could he looked over his shoulder, knowing what he would find, praying he wouldn’t find it, praying harder than he would. A cloud of blond hair was nestled against the pillow, a black feather laying on the sheets between them, a remnant from the battered wings that were fanned out on the floor. _Oh, no. What did I do to that sweet angel in my rum-fuelled haze? What is wrong with me? Just because it was Halloween, that is not an excuse. He is not the one to mess around with. I know this. I knew this last night. And yet, here we are._

Gently, gently, so as not to wake the sleeping bookseller who was quietly snoring as if he was dreaming of whatever it was he liked best, Crowley reached down underneath the duvet to assess the severity of the situation. _No jeans. Okay. Could be a purely platonic explanation, who sleeps in denim anyway? Nobody, that’s who. Boxers are still on. Bodes well. Socks are…socks are on? Oh god. Sensual as always, you bloody idiot. Nothing sets the mood like leaving your socks on. _As he straightened back up he felt a sharp stab against his hamstring. _Ah, ow. What happened there? did I try to leapfrog a bollard again? Why don’t I ever learn? _He shifted slightly, felt the pain again, reached down and tugged the twisted halo out from under his leg. He held it up in front of his face and sighed, hand shaking with the effort and a desperate need for something caffeinated.

_Fucking halo_, he thought, tossing it to the ground. As soon as it left his hand fragments of the night came shuddering back in 4K technicolour glory. Specifically, the moment he had leaned in to kiss Zira, only to be thwarted by the wily halo. His memory ended there, with no recollection of whether or not the bookseller had reciprocated. _Nooo_. A heartbeat later the sound of the halo hitting the floorboards echoed tinnily around the silent room. Crowley lay flat out, closed his eyes, and prayed the sound hadn’t woken Zira before he’d had a chance to claw back more memories from the night before.

“Beautiful dance, the gavotte…” Zira’s disembodied voice rang out from the other side of the bed, voice thick with sleep and residual alcohol. Next to him, Crowley froze. He had _awoken_.

Zira shook himself awake from a rather lovely dream, immediately regretting the movement when it felt like his brain slowly careened from one side of his skull to the other, hitting a million swollen pressure points on each side. “Oh…good lord.”

Crowley snuck a glance at him, blond hair dishevelled from a rough night, dark circles blooming like freshly flowered bruises, eyes red-rimmed and half-closed. Rumpled and gorgeous. Zira suddenly sensed his presence and turned slowly to look at him, eyes widening as his mouth dropped open ever so slightly and the most desperately pathetic expression fell over his face. “Please…Crowley…water.”

The sound of Zira’s throaty, whining voice was enough to leave Crowley laughing in relief as he rolled onto his side. A second after waking up in bed with him and Zira was right back to his fussy self, demanding things as if the two of them waking up together was an everyday occurrence. Whatever happened the night before, everything between them was normal. At least, he feared, until one, or both, of them remembered exactly what had gone on that saw them waking up together almost naked. The events of the night were still blurred around the edges but it was the memory of leaning close to kiss Zira, the intoxicating feeling of skin on skin after all those long weeks of anticipation, that burned brightest in his mind.

“Bedside table,” Crowley croaked. His throat was killing him, voice nothing more than a dry crackle rising up from his depths like a brittle leaf crushed against the pavement. “Paracetamol there too. Take them.”

“It’s _empty_,” Zira cried out in sorrow, and he sounded as though he actually could cry if he received one more piece of tragic news. He reached behind his back, pulled out a fistful of black feathers and dropped them onto his chest, turning to look at Crowley as confusion knotted between his eyebrows. “What…happened?”

It was a question Crowley was in no fit state to answer. He mumbled a groan of solidarity and proceeded to spend the next thirty seconds trying and failing to build up the courage to stand up. Eventually he compromised by sitting on the edge of the bed, forehead pressed against one knee as he waited for his head to catch up with the rest of his body. _This is the worst one, _he thought slowly, _this is the hangover that will finally kill me. _Lily would be delighted when word got back to her, he knew that, there was nothing she loved more than hearing about every debauched event that unfolded after one of her parties. _Well, Lily, I have truly outdone myself this year._

He was halfway through shuffling around the bed to get to the bathroom, carefully avoiding the clothes that were strewn recklessly across the floorboards (_that shirt and those trousers were tossed there in a fit of passion, I know it. Passionate slinging written all over it), _when his own state of undress reared its head once again. _Oh god, why didn’t I take my socks off? Nothing sexy about bare legs and socks. Go with it, it's too late now. Get your saunter on and hope for the best._

He reached out to grab Zira’s empty glass as he sauntered past the bed and felt the bookseller’s shaky hand wrap around his wrist. When he looked down he saw Zira looking up at him, lips tight with anxiety as he swallowed once, twice and then spoke. “Did I, er, did I do anything stupid last night? Are we…okay?”

Crowley saw the worry in his eyes, the weight of waking up without knowing if there was anybody he needed to apologise to, anything he needed to regret. He had woken up with that feeling innumerable times, knew only too well how wretched it could make you feel. The dreads had begun to rear their head and the day was still so very, very young. What he needed was somebody to look after him, to steer him through the stormy seas of a post-Halloween hangover. And that somebody was a dog walker who still had his socks on from the night before.

“Of course you didn’t. You were an angel.” He gave Zira’s shoulder a little rub, felt a quiet thrill at touching him so easily, as if it was commonplace now. “And of course we are, we always will be. It’ll take more than Lily’s lethal cocktails to knock us off-kilter.”

Pushing the door closed behind him, Crowley took a good hard look at himself in the bathroom mirror. _If you were stupid enough to get that drunk you can face up to your own damn reflection. Gaze upon the havoc you wreaked, foul fiend._

It was a bracing reflection that greeted him. His ‘tattoo’ was now nothing but a sweaty smear of black on the side of his face. _Waterproof eyeliner, my arse. _It quickly became obvious exactly why it hurt so much to blink when he found two golden yellow irises staring back at him. He sighed, a quiet growl escaping his lips. He had to get them out. He had to get them out with shaking, clammy fingers. The longer he left them in, the worse it would be. There was nothing he could do but suck in a deep breath, lean in close to the mirror and attempt to pinch the sclera lens out of his left eye. As if commanded by a supernatural force the lens popped out right on cue, landing wetly in the sink. _That_, Crowley thought, feeling very smug indeed as he batted his left eye open and closed to replenish some much-needed moisture, _went far better than I thought it would._

The second lens, however, got its sweet revenge by resolutely clinging to Crowley’s right eyeball and refusing to make a dignified exit, however many times he hissed expletives into the mirror. _Don’t panic. You’re panicking. Stop panicking. _He placed his hands on either side of the sink, let his head come to rest against the cool surface of the mirror as he steadied his breathing. _Didn’t bloody think about taking them out last night, did you? Too busy…fraternising. Almost fraternising. Thinking about fraternising. God knows, but fraternising definitely came into the equation somewhere._

Every little action, whether it was refilling Zira’s glass or freeing his right eye from its demonic sheath, felt insurmountable against the backdrop of the hangover from hell. He wanted to crawl back into bed, cling to Zira like a limpet, and order more snacks than it was possible to consume. Bonus points if they could be winched up to be delivered via the bedroom window. Surely Deliveroo would have an option for that. He couldn’t be the first person to request it.

_Focus. One thing at a time. First, water. Second, do something about that morning breath. Third, activate limpet clinging. _Nodding to his reflection as if it was a harrowing-looking sidekick, he ignored the nagging pain in his eye and filled the glass with water. Then he downed the water. Then he filled the glass again. Then he downed that. Then, already tiring of the incessant to-ing and fro-ing with the taps, he filled it once more for luck and walked slowly into the bedroom to pass it to Zira, who took it with a weak smile. Padding wordlessly back into the bathroom, he squeezed a glob of toothpaste onto one finger and did the best he could to scour the fuzz from the night before from his teeth and tongue.

As he scrubbed he leaned back against the doorframe, resting his head against the wood as he tried to recall the missing periods of time from the night before. It would come back to him, eventually, as the fog in his mind cleared and the last of the alcohol evaporated from his bloodstream. Probably at 3am on a work night when he could _really _enjoy the excruciating memories at their best, as they filled him with palpable embarrassment that would, he was sure, flash into his mind at regular intervals for the rest of his days. Probably at night, just as he was drifting off to sleep. _You’re too fragile for this, there will be so much time for beer fear later on, just clean your teeth and calm down. And remember this feeling next year when you think it’s a good idea to down a bowl of Petrifying…Putrified…whatever the bloody hell it was._

In the bedroom, Zira lay on his side and breathed slowly in and out, his breath laboured as he prayed for the sweet release of death. Everything felt thick, sluggish, as if every thought took years to form in his brain. _Now then, _he thought to himself, as he tried not to slide off of the bed with the force of the room shaking around him, _let’s retrace our steps, shall we? That seems like the logical way to fill in the blanks. _

He remembered leaving the party, that was fine. He remembered the crepes, that was more than fine. He remembered that strange moment when he thought an otherworldly voice had filled the shop, seconds before Crowley laughed at him as they heard a gang of teenagers careen past the windows. Zira rolled his eyes, which was a huge mistake as the movement somehow intensified his pounding head twofold, _of course it wasn’t coming from the floorboards, you madman, maybe you did let the night get to you. _He remembered Crowley straddling him and pouring water all over his face. He remembered seeing himself reflected in those eyes, remembered a moment of everything stopping, something that felt like the calm before the storm, and then he remembered nothing but falling asleep on Crowley’s chest, feeling utterly, indescribably happy.

He looked across to the bathroom, saw Crowley standing in the doorway furiously scrubbing his teeth with his finger, one foot bent up to rest against the doorframe. Zira took his time, letting his gaze linger over every rakish, long-limbed, lean part of him. _Good lord, he really is something._ As if he could read his mind (a notion that terrified Zira to the core), Crowley let his head fall to the side and looked back at him, one golden-yellow contact lens still firmly in his eye, a white froth of toothpaste clinging to his finger.

He watched Crowley turn and strut back into the bathroom, enjoying the view so much he was tempted to call him back just so he could watch him walk away again. _This, _Zira thought, as he faced the onslaught of pain to sit up and watch the muscles contract in Crowley’s back as he leaned over the sink, _will be the death of me. But what a way to go._

Zira felt rather than saw Crowley sink down onto the mattress next to him, given that the only way to stop the room from spinning was to close his eyes and curl into the foetal position. He heard a grunt, a creak of the bed frame as Crowley crawled back into the bed, and then the warm weight of a body was pressed to his back. “What are you doing?” _Whatever it is, don’t let me stop you, my good man_.

“Limpet,” Crowley replied, voice husky and low, as if sleep was imminent. “Are you too hot? I can-”

“_No_, no, this is….dandy.” Zira felt Crowley’s fingertips make their way to his waist, gently at first and then, when the bookseller let out a little sigh that was only half involuntary, the dog walker nestled closer, his hand sliding up until it came to rest against Zira’s chest.

“Dandy.” The word was muffled against his hair but the laugh that came after it was unmistakable.

“Well, whatever you wish to call it.”

Would a limpet-cling by any other name be quite as bloody delightful? Crowley pondered the thought as he slipped back to sleep, revelling in the bonus of getting to wake up next to Zira twice in a single day.

_Bzzzt_.

“No.”

The single word roused Zira from sleep and he turned his head to find Crowley’s face inches away, eyes squeezed closed as he tried to ignore the sound of a phone vibrating somewhere in the Halloween costume graveyard that was Zira’s bedroom floor.

The room fell silent then and Crowley breathed a sigh of relief. It was just a text, something that could be ignored until he felt human enough to type. He didn’t know how much time had passed since they’d fallen asleep again, all he knew was it wasn’t enough. _Do I feel worse? Was I still drunk before? How do I feel worse? I am so hungry. I would destroy worlds for a bacon sandwich. Hash browns. Toast. All the beige. Eggs. Oh, sweet, glorious eggs. Somebody feed me eggs and tell me I won’t feel this way forever._

_Bzzzt. Bzzzt. Bzzzt._

Zira clutched his shoulders, stared straight into his two human eyes (one distinctly redder than the other) and gave him what he hoped was the pep talk to end all pep talks. “Crowley. Listen to me. You can do this.”

_Okay_, Zira conceded, _perhaps not a pep talk for the ages. Rhetoric’s a little thin on the ground while my bloodstream is more Halloween punch than, well, blood._

“This had better be good.” Crowley gave him a little nod, then began the slow, painful journey to become reunited with his phone.

It was rather easy to locate in the end, tucked away safely in the pocket of his jeans. He’d anticipated Tracy’s name to be top of his list of missed calls, probably calling to ask if he planned on ever collecting his dog who was, he assumed, rampaging through their peaceful abode and leaving a trail of chaos in his wake. _That’s my boy_, he thought fondly.

** _(1) Missed Call: Sammy_ **

The growl that emanated from Crowley’s throat was the sound of a dog walker scorned, tricked into cutting short a snuggle session that had been shaping up to be one for the history books.

_Bzzzt. Bzzzt._

“_What?_” he hissed, stalking back to bed and flinging himself onto the mattress so violently Zira assumed only the most mortal of enemies could be on the other end of the phone.

“Well aren’t you a little ray of sunshine this morning?” Sammy’s voice filtered out through the phone, jollier than any voice on November 1st had the right to be.

“_Why_ are you calling me? It’s…” Crowley pulled the phone back from his ear to squint at the screen. “Oh. Quarter to twelve.”

“Were you still asleep? I’ve already put the washing machine on, cooked a delicious but balanced breakfast and I’m about to head to the gym.”

Crowley looked around the room, at the tangled clothes on the floor, the demon wings that lay in disarray on top of the duvet, at the curtains that were closed as a last ditch defence against the sunlight. His most worthwhile achievement of the day was making it back to bed without falling to his knees to beg every deity in existence to end this headache and there was Sammy…cooking…cleaning…_exercising_ like some kind of…responsible adult. “Are you _serious_?”

“No, of course not, I’m walking back from Edward Scissorhands’ flat. Somewhere in Bromley.”

“You went all the way to Bromley for a shag?” Next to him, he saw Zira raise both eyebrows and nod his head slightly, apparently impressed.

Sammy’s delightfully cheery response came rattling through the phone and he sounded very, very pleased with himself. “There has been a drought of late, my friend, but that drought is no more. Do you know why they call me the postman?”

“Because you’re a postman?” Crowley knew the punchline. He dreaded the punchline. The punchline, however, was coming whether he liked it or not.

“Because I always deliver!” Sammy cackled to himself and Crowley closed his eyes, sighing.

“You sound far too alive for this time in the morning.” The only thing giving Crowley faith that there was any sort of justice in the world was the knowledge that Sammy hadn’t escaped the clutches of a particularly gruelling post-Halloween hangover, he had merely kept on trucking through the night to delay the inevitable. _Soon, my postman pal, soon._

“There's a ninety percent chance I am still, as they say, absolutely smashed. Do you want to go for brunch? How does brunch sound? Doesn’t brunch sound like a good idea?”

Brunch, Crowley conceded in his head, was always a good idea. There was nothing like a debrief to collate the shenanigans from the night before and lean on a trusted compatriot to fill in any black spots. For once, though, there was a siren song even more alluring than eggs and various accoutrements mashed into overpriced sourdough toast and that siren song was curling up around a very handsome bookseller for as long as he possibly could before responsibilities intervened.

“Stop saying brunch.”

“Brunch.”

“Not so sure on the brunch front, Sammy. We, er, only just woke up.”

“_WE?_” Sammy’s record-scratch screech exploded from the phone so violently that Zira looked up from the other side of the bed, eyes flicking to Crowley’s as the dog walker offered an apologetic smile.

Zira leaned over, giving the phone a little wave, a motion that left Crowley’s stomach clenching with affection. At least, it felt like affection, could have been nausea. It was a fine line that day. “Morning, Sammy!”

“Put me on speakerphone immediately, oh my god, this is better than brunch.”

***

A dog walker and a bookseller were half an hour into their third sleep of the day when Zira let out a low groan of horror and gripped onto the side of the bed to haul himself upright. Crowley’s hand slid away from his waist and slapped against the mattress, leaving him blinking in confusion.

“Oh no...” Zira’s weak little voice trailed off, pale face aghast as he stared at the bedroom door as if a crowd of rampant bookworms might split it open from top to bottom at any moment. “I have a...customer...coming today.”

“It’s Sunday,” Crowley offered gently, in case that might be any help whatsoever. “And nobody knows what the hell your opening hours are anyway. That sign...that’s not entry level code cracking, that’s expert level, that is.”

Zira shifted away from him, reluctantly, swung his legs over the side of the bed and wobbled over the wardrobe, as unsteady as he had been the night before. “They’re coming to pick up an order.”

Crowley rolled onto his back, kicking the duvet off as he folded his hands behind his head and shamelessly watched Zira’s every movement as he rifled through a rail of clothes as if he was looking for something very specific, only to pull out an outfit that looked exactly like what he wore every other day. _So_, Crowley realised, nodding to himself as if he’d just solved a mystery that he’d been pondering for some time, _he does, in fact, have a wardrobe of near identical clothes rather than a very healthy relationship with the nearest dry cleaners. _“Ah, not clearing your schedule for the day after Halloween. Rookie error.”

“Yes, well, Crowley, I clearly underestimated the…scope of the evening, didn’t I?” Zira turned back and glared at him as he hastily buttoned up a shirt, letting out a strangled cry of frustration when he realised he’d misjudged the alignment and had buttoned the entire thing up lop-sided.

“Oh, I think we both underestimated that.” Crowley laughed, standing up and locking his hands behind his back until he felt a satisfying click between his shoulder blades. He tugged his t-shirt over his head, eternally grateful that his colour palette did wonders to hide a multitude of sins, mostly extending to stains from shots of tequila that got away from him. He gave Zira a sidelong glance, caught him casting a furtive glance thighward in his own direction before hastily looking away.

“Ha!” he cried victoriously, waving his pelvis in Zira’s direction after single-handedly doing up the top button of his jeans with no trouble at all. “Not so stiff after _all_.”

Up until that moment his memories of the night before had remained hazy around the edges, just little glimpses coming back to him as the morning had worn on. And then, as he basked in the joy of proving Zira wrong about the troublesome nature of his jeans, something triggered in his brain and every delicious recollection thundered into his mind. _Zira_ making the first move, _Zira _wrenching his jeans down over his hips as if there was absolutely no time to lose, _Zira _asking him to stay the night. _That randy little bookseller!_

Crowley had assumed Zira had close to no idea what exactly had happened after they got back to the shop the night before but perhaps those lingering looks suggested he knew a little more than he was letting on. “Angel,” he asked innocently, “how much _do_ you remember about last night?”

“Absolutely nothing. Nothing after the crepes. Nothing at all.” Zira’s voice was so insistent it could only have been a lie. _I wonder_, Crowley mused, _at what point this morning did it all come flooding back to him?_ Across the room, Zira was frantically wringing his hands to reinforce every. last. word. “And I do not need to know. All I know is that a very pleasant time was had by all.”

“Now that we can both agree on.” He bent low to sweep his jacket off of the floor and over his shoulder, strolled past Zira with the brightest smile on his face as he paused to plant a kiss on his forehead. He took two steps forward, paused, and retraced his steps before giving Zira a quick peck on the lips. “Remember, don’t let the dreads get to you.”

***

“Good night?”

“Yes…”

“Didn’t stay at yours then?”

“Nooo.”

“Has his new flooring arrived yet?”

“No.”

Tracy fell silent, folding her arms across her chest and smiling in satisfaction as she waited for the penny to drop.

“Oh, that’s not fair, I’m feeling too delicate to lie.” Crowley narrowed his eyes from behind his sunglasses, resolving never to fall for one of Tracy’s sneaky tricks again.

“What’s that, love?” She nodded down towards his neck, a look of rising interest sparkling in her eyes.

Crowley froze, slapping one hand to his neck. _Zira, _he growled internally, _a hickey, really?_ “Nothing. There’s nothing there. Why would there be anything there?” He laughed, the sound coming out as more of a nervous wail.

Tracy rolled her eyes, licked her thumb and leaned out of the doorway to start wiping the smeared had-been-tattoo from his cheek, looking exceedingly pleased with herself as Crowley sighed, dropping his hand from his neck and glaring down at his palm as if it was somehow to blame for his accidental confession.

***

He felt decidedly more robust after a slow stroll from the Shadwells’ house back to the flat. There had been a moment when it had been touch and go and a thick feeling in the back of his throat had almost had him sprinting for the nearest bin, but taking a pitstop to down a bottle of water on a park bench had seen him safely ride the wave of nausea until it passed. Barnaby had careened back and forth around him, picking up so much speed it looked as though he could take flight at any moment.

It was there, on that park bench, that he’d received a chirpy text from Lily, followed by a single ominous video file.

_Heard you didn’t make it home last night. I’m coming over tomorrow after work and you’re telling me everything. For now, please enjoy the visual representation of your descent into shameless thirst._

Crowley had given himself a moment to steel himself for the onslaught of humiliation before pressing _Play_ and watching, slack-jawed, as he stared into the face of his own drunken antics.

At first glance it looked much like the usual boring-to-everyone-but-the-attendees party video that was nothing more than a clip of a group of people dancing in a dimly lit room. That was until Crowley spotted an angel and a demon in the corner of the frame. His memory had painted the night as something dreamily romantic, two lovers moving as one to the music as if they were in their own world in some tiny bohemian nightclub. The reality, stark as it was, was two idiots drunkenly bashing against each other in Lily’s living room, stumbling messily for the other, both absolutely beyond-all-reason inebriated. It was not, in fact, the sensual coming together of two souls that he remembered. He was practically salivating on Zira’s shoulder, clutching fistfuls of his makeshift angel costume in one fist as he blathered something in Zira’s ear that did, Crowley noticed with satisfaction, leave him nodding with glee. That was something, at least. Oh, the cruel, cold truth of an impartial smartphone lens.

By the time he made it back to the flat the afternoon was near enough over and the day was all but wasted. All he had to do was make it through the evening and he could collapse into bed. Another November 1st done and dusted; the end of hangover from hell was in sight. He was sprawled across the sofa deciding exactly which type of junk food he was going to order en masse when his phone vibrated in his pocket. _Social butterfly today_, he thought, as he pulled it free.

_SOS. I let the dreads get to me. Please bring chips and a McFluffy._

Crowley grinned down at his phone, partly because of the word _McFluffy_ bursting forth into their shared lexicon, mostly because he had already spent the past two hours wondering what excuse could give him a reason to _have to_ drop by the bookshop, post haste.

“I’ll be home later, boy, I promise.” He stroked Barnaby’s soft ear, murmuring permission to curl up for a snooze on the sofa if he so wished. “First I’ve got a bookseller to rescue from rum-related doom, you know how it is.”

***

“Oh, thank _heavens_.” Zira looked up from the desk, head held gently in his hands, as Crowley swung the door of the shop open and waved a McDonald’s bag in his direction. “I may be close to death.”

“You _may _be a drama queen.” Crowley deposited the bag in front of him, pulled out a carton of chips and slid a delicious iced drink across to Zira. “This, by the way, is a McFlurry.”

“I know that,” Zira mumbled, words garbled on account of the chips he was mainlining like they might be snatched away from him at any moment. “I don’t have the energy to fight with autocorrect today. What have you been up to? You look...healthy.”

“Went to collect the boy,” he explained, pausing as he weighed up whether or not to share the details of his conversation with Tracy. In the end he decided against it for now; Zira was already looking fragile enough, the knowledge that their mutual friend and determined matchmaker had well and truly rumbled them might just finish him off for good. “Went for a walk. Had a crisis on a park bench. Pledged never to drink again. The usual. You?”

“Stood up.” Zira nodded to the stack of books piled neatly on top of the desk, before he rolled his eyes and turned his attention back to the next carton of chips he had fished out of the bag. _Bold of you to assume they weren’t for me_, Crowley mused, _but fine_. “They never showed up. I opened on a Sunday and they didn’t even show up.”

“I told you, nobody does anything the day after Halloween. It’s a write off.” Crowley hopped up onto the desk, one foot resting on the wooden edge as the other swung lightly to and fro.

Zira gave him a tight look, lips pursed. “I don’t think, my dear, that the gentleman who has acquired these valuable tomes was off…”

“Fraternising?” He leaned over to grab a chip.

“…Fraternising at a fancy dress party.”

A moment later and the second carton of chips was empty. A moment after that and the McFlurry cup had been drained, crushed, and tossed back into the bag. A moment after _that _saw one hand flying up to Zira’s mouth as he stared at Crowley, panicked, before moving faster than he had all day and hurling himself up the stairs to vomit dramatically in the toilet.

“Wow,” Crowley breathed, raising his eyebrows as he slid off of the desk and leaned over to read the titles of the books Zira had failed to part with that day, despite his very best efforts. He heard the door swing open behind him, tossed the words over his shoulder that he’d heard Zira use whenever anybody tried to step into the shop after five o’clock. “Oh, we’re closed, sorry.”

“_We’re_ closed?” A voice that was more of an elegant purr than anything else bloomed in the silence. “Zira _has_ been a very busy bookseller.”

As the sharp click of high heels echoed over the floorboards, Crowley turned and found himself face to face with the most beautiful creature he had ever laid eyes on.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> HELLO! I hope you’re all well, tell me of your week so far! 
> 
> I know I always say it but thank you, all of you, for being so lovely and encouraging in the comments. It honestly means so much and reading your thoughts is always one of the highlights of my day. I could chat for *hours* (as you might have noticed :D) so having your comments to respond to is so much fun.
> 
> Big thank you for all the well wishes the other day when I was (dramatically) afflicted with a (not even that bad) cold - I’m back to my old self now but I am going to be aiming for 2-3 updates a week from now on. I’m finding Part II’s chapters are a lot longer than Part I’s so I want to keep the quality up - thanks for being so patient with me. At the end of each chapter I'll tell you when the next one's coming etc etc, hope that works for everyone!
> 
> (Sidenote: Part II is shaping up to be a BIG OLE KRAKEN - I’m somehow at almost half the word count of Part I already…but only a quarter of the way through my plot outline so…BUCKLE UP, I GUESS)
> 
> So, with that said the next days for updates are:
> 
> Saturday: Morocco (Chapter Two)  
Monday: Love is a Wild Thing (Chapter Fourteen)
> 
> Honestly, you guys are the best, I feel very very lucky to have you all and I am beyond grateful that you're all still here reading this and (hopefully) enjoying it! <3


	14. Belong

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In any ordinary circumstance the idea of two of his worlds colliding would have filled Zira with creeping dread that would have evolved into full-blown panic by the time the first course had arrived.

**November. Z. Fell and Co., London.**

“Aren’t you just a little slice of heaven?”

A waterfall of golden hair shimmering with waves of silver-grey framed a face that was innately _captivating_, the sort of beauty that got more and more compelling the longer you stared at it. It was a face that was begging to be painted, all confident brushstrokes and deep, autumnal colours. Curved smile lines bookended a mouth that teased a grin rather than fully committing to it, and a pair of eyes that held all the delight and secrets of a long life experienced to the fullest fixed their sights on Crowley, who was staring back, transfixed. Who was this beautiful creature and how in the _world_ were they so closely acquainted with Zira?

“Slunk off for some time alone with the crossword, has he?” They laughed, their voice a low, lilting melody as they shrugged out of a blood red trench coat and folded it delicately over one arm. “My better half isn’t here yet either, I take it?”

“I…” Crowley trailed off, a rare moment of being rendered speechless.

“Luci,” they said as an afterthought, as if the notion that they hadn’t already met had all but slipped their mind. “Zira’s mysterious new _friend_, I presume? From what Raphael’s told me you’re quite the new fixture around here.”

Oh. _Oh_. Of _course_. It all made sense. Raphael and Luci. Luci and Raphael. Now he knew, it seemed impossible to see them as anything but one of the two free-spirited hedonists who had gently steered Zira through his adult life, encouraging him to break the rules, to step outside his comfort zone once in a while. If Raphael was a force to be reckoned with then Luci was something even vaster, an entire galaxy of freedom; to look at them was to know they had a thousand stories to tell, each more shocking and addictive than the last. Crowley was struck with the urge to take a seat, pour himself a drink and ask Luci to just talk at him until the sky grew dark and they flitted off for a night of unplanned frivolity. _This_, he thought to himself, _is who I want to be when I grow up._

“Crowley.” He took the hand they offered, wondered too late whether he was supposed to shake it or kiss it, instead opted for a limp little caress that might have been the most cringe-worthy thing he’d done that week - and he’d seen the video of his behaviour at Lily’s party the night before. To his utmost relief, Luci let out a husky laugh that could have launched a thousand ships, and then a thousand more for good measure. “Zira’s…”

A retch echoed down the stairs at the perfect moment. Crowley raised a hand, gestured towards the sound.

“Bit of a heavy night last night.”

“Well, while our dear bookseller is otherwise engaged and my husband is keeping us all desperately waiting, I’ve got a burning question for you, little one. Settle an ongoing argument between two old bats, will you?” Luci pulled the heavy wooden chair out from behind the cash register and perched on the edge, ankles crossed daintily as they plucked a lukewarm chip out of a stray carton. “What _is_ the nature of your…dalliance with our endearing mutual friend? Done the deed? Sealed the deal?”

Crowley had always thought the idea of somebody’s eyes bulging was an exaggeration. That was, at least, until this alluring almost-stranger came right out and asked the question everybody, he and Zira included, seemed to have been dancing around for weeks. It was strange, though, once he started talking he couldn’t seem to stop. There was something about Luci’s presence that saw him lean his elbows down on the desk and unearth revelations he hadn’t even known he was carrying around in his mind. “No! We’re just friends. I think. I don’t know what’s going on. It’s complicated. We haven’t had The Talk. I mean, I stayed last night but who knows what that means anyway? I think, maybe, it’s heading towards…”

Luci rolled two golden hazel eyes, muttered something under their breath about owing Raphael an inordinate amount of money. “I didn’t ask if you were getting married, I asked if you’d…”

“No,” Crowley hissed, dropping his voice as he heard the laboured flush of a toilet that had seen far too much vomit for one day. “We have not _done the deed _yet.”

“Yet.” The word hung in the air, victorious, a soft undulation of three letters that left Crowley’s cheeks flushing scarlet.

“Do not put words in my mouth.”

Zira barrelled shakily through from the back room then, dabbing neatly at the corner of his mouth with a handkerchief. He paused in the doorway when he caught sight of Luci and Crowley engaged in conversation, raised both eyebrows as if he’d just stumbled across a crime scene. “Who’s putting what in whose mouth?”

Looking like the manifestation of mischief, Luci looked from Crowley to Zira and smiled wickedly. They let the awkward silence wrap itself around the room, a haze of humiliation that grew thicker and thicker until Crowley, floundering, did the only thing he could think of and broke into a run in his haste to leave the room. “Excuse me…I need…a drink.”

Zira watched him hotfoot it up the stairs to the kitchen, then glanced down at the bottle of water that was resting on the desk. “That was odd.”

Luci beamed. Raphael had been on the money. That happy accident of a dog walker was, it seemed, exactly the breath of fresh air Zira needed. “What a _sweet_ boy. Now, how are you feeling, darling? You look ghastly.”

***

_Maybe I’ll just live here in the kitchen forever. Safe up here. Nobody asking difficult questions. Nobody peering into my soul. Nothing but me and…_ Crowley paused, opening Zira’s fridge for no reason other than he was unwaveringly nosy about the contents of people’s fridges. You could learn a lot about somebody by what they kept in their fridge, he always thought. _Cheese. Cheesecake. Cake. Oh wow._

“Crowley?” Zira’s voice echoed up the stairs and he pressed the fridge door closed guiltily, as if he’d been caught in the act. “Are you all right?”

“Oh, perfect, aside from being hungover and humiliated,” he mumbled to himself, jogging down the stairs and running a hand casually through his hair, as if he hadn’t just caved under the pressure of Luci’s piercing gaze and bolted from the room in a panic.

When he reached the shop floor two had become three, and Raphael waved a hand to greet him, his rousing voice booming through the shop. “Crowley! Zira didn’t mention you were joining us tonight, what a lovely surprise.”

Crowley cast a look in Zira’s direction, found the bookseller looking back with an expression that was absolutely impossible to decipher, his skin taking on an almost grey pallor in the fading autumn light._ Well, thanks, angel, that gives me a lot to work with._ He nodded to the crumpled brown bag that lay forgotten on the desk, buried his hands in his pockets as a pre-emptive defence against the chilly air that would accompany him on the long walk back to the flat. “Don’t let me keep you, it was just a flying visit.”

A little cough then, and the feeling of Zira reaching out to stroke lightly at the sleeve of his jacket. “You wasted all day looking after me. Why don’t you come for dinner with us? If you’d like.”

_Angel, there was nothing I’d rather have done today than spend it with you, trust me_, Crowley thought to himself, might even have been brave enough to say the words aloud if they’d been alone. But they weren’t alone. And he wasn’t brave enough. He opted for a smile instead, a firm nod. “I would, angel. Sounds infinitely better than pizza and being judged by Netflix.”

***

As Zira fumbled to twist his key in the shop’s heavy lock, Crowley leaned in close and whispered. “You didn’t mention the…”

“In-laws?” Zira looked up at him, helpfully filling in the gap.

_Not even in the same ballpark as what I was thinking but I am well and truly going with it._ “You didn’t mention the _in-laws_ were coming when you summoned me.”

“Well, Crowley, I had forgotten. Obviously. I’ve been somewhat distracted today what with all the limpet clinging and vomiting.” He pulled the key out of the lock, checked the handle, then checked it again to be sure. “Not that the two go hand in hand.”

“I’m not dressed for dinner with your elegant friends. I’m dressed for laying horizontally on the sofa until I become one with the fibres.” Crowley gestured wildly at himself. “Look at me.”

_It’s what I’ve been doing all day and I don’t intend on stopping any time soon._ “I think you look rather nice.”

“Are you two inamoratos coming?”

They turned in unison to find Raphael and Luci standing on the other side of the road, arm in arm, watching as if they found them _just adorable_, like two baby birds on the cusp of leaving the nest.

_Inamoratos?_ Crowley mouthed, as they trailed after them. Zira shrugged, rolling his eyes and attempting to telepathically explain it was best not to speculate where Raphael and Luci were concerned. Easier to just go with it.

They strode through the streets, Raphael and Luci taking the lead, leaning in close to each other and cackling happily up to the night sky as they shared a joke that wouldn’t have made sense to anybody else in the world, however much context they tried to give it. That’s how they were, Zira thought, as he viewed his oldest friends through Crowley’s lens, as if he was seeing them together for the first time. It was how they had always been. A double act, two halves of a whole, charismatic as separate entities but when they came together it was magic, something bigger than the sum of its parts, the sort of love that made you come alive just by being in its radius. Unconditional, providing Raphael kept the biscuit tin well-stocked, of course.

What would they make of Crowley, he wondered, would they see everything he did? Impossible, he reasoned, for them to see anything other than how brightly he shone. After all, who could resist that face, that smart mouth, the sweetness in his eyes when he would let you in enough to see his softer side? Zira glanced across at him, swallowed a smile as he caught the worried lines on Crowley’s forehead as they walked past an illuminated shop window. _Nervous?_ Zira thought, with a jolt of snippy satisfaction, _starting to realise meeting the nearest and dearest isn’t quite as easy as you thought, my dear? Oh, how the tables have turned._

As Soho transitioned into Mayfair, two very different thought processes were unfurling in Crowley and Zira’s minds. After a rather startling revelation in the shower he had taken after returning to the flat that afternoon, Crowley had found himself settling into a state of mind that was neither welcome nor comfortable. He was, while performing the sort of mental catastrophising Zira himself would consider dramatic, fretting.

_It’s happened. I’ve fallen for this mild-mannered bookseller. I’m nearly, almost, soon-to-be sober and this feeling hasn’t gone away. Shared trauma. That’s what did it. We were never going to emerge together from the fiery depths of this hangover and not be forever soul-bonded. Serious business, hangover snuggling, not to be taken lightly. Emotions all over the place. Your friends love him, your dog loves him, you…are growing increasingly fond of him. This is the big one, Crowley. Do. Not. Mess. This. Up. Does he feel the same? Must do, mustn’t he? He invited you for dinner. Not quite The Talk but it’s something, isn’t it? Dinner with the surrogate in-laws, that’s a big thing, isn’t it? His closest friends. His closest, artiest, smartest, most intimidatingly stylish friends. And you’re wearing your stupid jeans and a t-shirt that you know well and good should have been relegated to the pyjama drawer many moons ago. Could have at least stuck on a shirt, couldn’t you, you absolute mess? Ah, but that would have required an invitation, wouldn’t it? And you didn’t get an invitation. You got a pity invite out of politeness. If he liked you that much he would have invited you in the first place, wouldn’t he? But…all the limpet clinging…that counts for something, doesn’t it? Calm down or you’ll start sweating, and lord knows you’ve perspired enough in his presence already._

Next to him, Zira had one simple thought on his mind.

_I do hope the venison is on the menu tonight._

***

Crowley had walked past the restaurant many times before. He had even, on one occasion he was not going to admit that evening, stopped once to pull out his phone and take a picture of it, so achingly cool was the restaurant’s exterior when darkness fell and the otherworldly lighting spotlit the artful facade. He would always look up at the first floor windows when he passed, at the gold and scarlet glow that radiated out, a sumptuous secret world he was neither wealthy nor chic enough to be invited into. _Until now_, he thought. The irony that it was Zira, with his love of the traditional, the comfortable, who had ushered him into this voguish world was something that tickled him, a feeling overshadowed by his brain insisting that this was not a world he belonged in.

_They’re going to take one look at me and send me away. They’re going to look at my shoes and know they cost less than my rent. This is not where I belong. I belong where the menus are laminated, not where there’s a bloody art installation in the lobby._

“Good evening, sir.” The maître d’ smiled warmly at him, tapping Luci’s coat that was already folded over his arm. “May I take your jacket?”

“Oh, no, I’m fine, thank you.” Crowley shook his head, tried to conjure up the facial expression of somebody who spent most of his Sunday nights feasting on tasting menus in exclusive city centre restaurants. The jacket was the only thing hiding the hole Barnaby swore he hadn’t chewed in the t-shirt, and Crowley intended to keep it firmly under wraps. It was a double-edged sword. Hide the hole, risk an attack of the panic sweats. Nice cooling breeze, hole on display. _My god, man, stop thinking about sweat, this is your final warning!_

“How are you feeling?” Zira asked, leaning close as they made their way up the sweeping staircase towards that elusive first floor. The bookseller still looked a little green around the gills but his voice was chipper than it had been all day; perhaps, finally, he was over the worst of it.

Crowley’s first instinct was to lie, to crack a joke and keep up his affectation of being supremely unassailable in any situation he was plunged into. But this was Zira, and he found himself relishing the opportunity to be honest, even if it was agonisingly soul-baring. “Like I don’t belong here.”

“Of course you do, we’re here together. If you don’t belong here then I don’t either, and the food is far too good for me to never come here again.” Zira slipped his hand through the crook of Crowley’s arm and gave him a little smile of solidarity. It was a feeling that was almost intoxicating in its intensity, the relief of taking that small step to try and share the truth he was too wary to say aloud: _we’re a team, you and me, we might not have figured out the name of that team yet, but we’re on the same side._

It was strange, how the smallest gestures could have the longest-lasting impact. Zira taking his arm and telling him simply that he belonged by his side was not the grandest declaration that would find its way into their shared history but, even so, it would become, over time, something remembered as a pivotal moment. With Zira’s touch tethering them, Crowley found a little bit of that unshakeable confidence returning. After all, who could be anything but confident walking arm in arm with the one they had been lucky enough to wake up next to not once but three times in a single day?

_You know what_, Crowley thought, as they took their seats, _maybe I’ll pay for everyone; maybe I’ll treat everyone to dinner, won’t that be a pleasant way to round off a day of this magnitude? I survived another Halloween hangover, it deserves to be commemorated._

Riding high on the wave of his own selfless generosity, Crowley looked around and basked in the wonder of finally making it inside the room that had looked so grandiose from the grey reality of the pavement outside. _The Lecture Room_, that was what their dining room for the evening had been called, the restaurant divided up into different zones, each one decorated to set a different mood. The Lecture Room was sumptuous in its colour palette, burnished copper and oxblood and gold, velvet armchairs arranged around intimate little tables, fringed lamps casting sprawling arcs of light across the walls. It was, Crowley realised, the perfect meeting of Zira and his friends’ sensibilities. It was snug yet chic, with just enough of a touch of camp to suggest the curated glamour was a wink to the audience. It was somehow both overwhelmingly intimidating and warmly comforting at the same time, something that summed up the present company rather perfectly.

It was all going well enough that a cosy glow of contentment had begun to rear its head in Crowley’s stomach. That was until he opened the menu and saw the price of the first starter. _Well, shit. I guess I can afford a lemonade and the soup and still be able to pay rent this month._

“Just so everybody is clear, tonight is on me so let’s cut out the awkward dithering at the end of the meal where we all pretend we want to pay, understood?” As if he was a mind-reader and, to be honest, Crowley wouldn’t have been that surprised if he was, Raphael dropped his menu lightly onto the table and brandished both palms to confirm there would be no faux-polite clamouring to pay for the bill.

“Very kind of you.” Zira gave him a little smile over the top of his menu that suggested this was a regular enough occurrence that the bookseller had learned long ago it was pointless arguing.

As he spluttered out a sentence that was brimming over with gratitude one could only muster after a very long day that had not, heartbreakingly, consisted of nearly enough carbohydrates, Crowley found his attention darting from Zira to Raphael to Luci, curiosity well and truly piqued. _How the hell are all these decadent bastards so loaded? I, too, wish to waltz from gallery opening to gallery opening to air kiss socialites and drink overpriced wine, where is my unmitigated fortune?_

***

Zira was a person who thrived on filing away each little part of his life in a neat box. Yes, compartmentalising was key. No sense in muddying the waters, not when you had enough self-awareness to know you were too much of a people pleaser to ever be one hundred percent yourself around company. It wasn’t that he pretended to be something he wasn’t, he was just well aware that he fulfilled a specific role in each relationship in his life and each one was a little different from the next.

To Raphael and Luci he was something of a protege, somebody they parented in their own unique way, consisting largely of expensive dinners out, weekly lunchtime visits to the shop to make sure he had, in fact, left the premises at least once since their last visit, and Christmas evenings spent watching old movies and drinking too much sherry. They had imprinted something of themselves onto him; the pursuit of all of the pleasures of life, both simple and mystifyingly complex. Literature, food, wine, love, the appreciation of it all was something he could trace back to their eternal partnership that had taught him everything he knew about devotion and patience.

To Tracy he was a chick to be fussed over, to be folded under a warm wing and fed with home-cooked meals that warmed the soul as well as the stomach. Her hero, she would call him, as he diligently sourced every weird and wild book that she deemed impossible to find. It had become something of a game over the years, as she presented him with list after list of long out of print titles, only for a stack of musty books to be deposited victoriously on her doorstep some weeks later.

To his customers he was that fussy, old-fashioned man who ran the bookshop with the impossible opening hours. He had overheard them say it often enough, jokes about which bow tie he might be wearing that day, whispered observations as if he wasn’t in the same room. He didn’t mind it, not really, didn’t think it was meant with any malice. He _was_ a fussy, old-fashioned man, after all. He leaned into it, the idea that his little quirks made him in any way memorable to the strangers who frequented his shop, who sometimes even made a purchase if they felt as though they owed him something more than merely appreciating the ambience of the shop. _Ambience, _he would think to himself on the slow days, _will not pay the bills._

And then there was Crowley, that chaotic storm who had swept into his life in much the same way a hurricane descends on a small, unprepared village. He had been forever changed in the wake of that strange day in August when the world had shifted for the first time, his confidence reaching fever pitch when he had peered across a crowded room and known, he had just _known_ that something was beginning and it involved that redhead with the sad eyes and the disarming smile. He had never had to hide from Crowley, never had to choose which face to present to him. He had, finally, found a place where he could be himself: flawed and vulnerable, bossy and sharp and, maybe, somebody who was worth knowing just the way he was.

In any ordinary circumstance the idea of two of his worlds colliding would have filled Zira with creeping dread that would have evolved into full-blown panic by the time the first course had arrived. As it turned out, the experience of formally introducing Crowley to Raphael and Luci was akin to wrapping a soft blanket over his knees and sipping a mug of sweet cocoa. He was content to take a back seat, to step into the role of observer and watch as three of his favourite people in the world swapped stories and jokes as easily as if they had known each other since time immemorial.

It had tugged at him, seeing Crowley look so small, so nervous as they’d arrived at the restaurant. Zira was used to seeing him in his comfort zone, strolling through the midnight streets as if he was patrolling his kingdom. It had been an unexpected pleasure to finally be able to return the favour and tell him that _there’s nothing to worry about, not when you’re with me, I’ve got you._

As the evening wore on he watched Crowley relax as Raphael did what Raphael did best and pulled at just the right strings to put him at ease, to bring him into the group and bestow him with his own role, just to make it clear he absolutely belonged right where he was. It was one of the things Zira loved most about his friends, the way they would never let a lost soul wander through loneliness for too long, himself included. _Like recognises like_, as Crowley was so fond of saying.

With those words echoing in his mind as their main course plates were whisked away, Zira shared a glance with Raphael and they raised their eyebrows in tandem at the emerging duo that was Crowley and Luci, a partnership that had all the potential to destroy worlds, if they ever decided to switch their focus from anything other than gossiping. While Crowley had listened, enraptured, as Luci had regaled him with stories of adventures in New York in the 70s, Paris in the 80s, London in the 90s, Luci had fallen just as desperately in love with his own tales of life as part of London’s twenty third most popular cover band. It turned out that Luci had spent plenty of nights in The Devil’s Den over the years, spoke fondly of the sticky floors, sweaty walls and terribly tiny little stage, and by the time the waiter arrived to see who could be tempted into ordering desert, the two of them had formed a formidable twosome.

“Go on, little one, I will if you will.” Luci gave him an unhurried wink and Crowley had to remind himself it wasn’t socially acceptable to shake Zira’s knee and wail _I love your friends _in the middle of a crowded restaurant.

“We’re going to have to keep an eye on these two.” Raphael grinned, nudging Zira’s hand with his own, looking faux-accusingly from his lifelong lover to Crowley. “Make sure they don’t fall into any mischief.”

After being talked into dessert, coffee, _and_ brandy, Crowley was feeling well and truly spoiled. Still, he would have wagered Luci could have talked him into jumping off a cliff if they’d suggested it might be a fun way to pass some time.

“So easily led,” they had purred, before telling the waiter they were feeling a little full and wouldn’t be ordering dessert. On the opposite side of the table, Crowley had floundered until Luci had laughed teasingly and promptly ordered a cheese board and another half bottle of wine.

***

Desserts demolished and nothing but half empty coffee cups left in front of them, Crowley was beginning to feel tired. Dog tired. The night before had finally begun to catch up with him and he found his thoughts turning to his bed, that rectangular cloud of heaven he planned on crawling into the second he made it back to the flat. It seemed unfathomable that it was only that morning he’d woken up in Zira’s bedroom, that less than twelve hours had passed since they’d laid shoulder to shoulder in bed with the phone resting on Crowley’s chest as they’d gossiped with Sammy about the night before. And now here he was, being wined and dined by Zira’s closest friends and it seemed, he hoped, as though they had taken a shine to him.

As the conversation began to wind down, Crowley felt the side of Zira’s hand brush against his own under the table, felt a knee press close to his. Intentional? It couldn’t be, he shook the notion away as soon as it flared in his mind. Zira had already made quite enough first moves for one twenty four hour period, he was sure of that, one more sober (well, almost-sober) display of affection might just be the end of him. But then one finger slid over his skin, gently hooking over his own index finger until they were entwined underneath the table, out of sight, safe and sound. Crowley froze, resolved not to move a muscle in case Zira took it as a brush off and moved away. There was a conversation happening above the table, he was vaguely aware of that, made sure to make affirmative noises in all the right places, but his entire focus was on that minuscule milestone that was playing out in secret. He had never, in all of his years, been rendered so breathless by such simple skin to skin contact. _Do you have any idea what you do to me, angel?_

The ground shifted then. For two of them, at least.

There was the feeling of something shuddering beneath them, a rumble echoing out from the depths beneath their feet. A flash of panic, and peace, and then falling, tumbling over and over as they plummeted through the air, together.

They crashed back into themselves as suddenly as they had left, looked down in tandem to find they were gripping each other’s hand under the table so tightly that two sets of white knuckles stared back. They looked at each other for a heartbeat, confusion giving way as the feeling subsided almost immediately, and then let go, looking away as the memory began to fade into nothing.

“Are we going to talk about that look of unadulterated horror that just passed between you two? Let me guess, you finally remembered the blank spots from last night?” Luci drained the remnants of their coffee, looked across at Raphael as the two of them shared a maddeningly loaded smile.

“Too much wine,” Zira said quickly. “I told you I was hungover. Did you listen? Did you hell.”

“_Too much wine?_” Raphael boomed, as if the very idea was an insult to his existence. “Look at you on your best behaviour, what _did_ you two get up to?”

“Right, well, I think it’s time to get the bill, don’t you? Bit past your bedtime, the two of you, isn’t it?”

As Zira and Raphael volleyed back and forth, Crowley flexed his fingers under the table and tried to grasp at what had just happened. It was not the first time he had felt that shift within himself, as if another force was shaking the world around him, leaving him breathless and confused, only able to remember fragments of the…memory? Dream? Complete lapse of all consciousness? This time had been different, though, for the simple fact that he hadn’t experienced it alone, not this time. Zira had reached for his hand in the exact moment he had reached for Zira’s.

_He felt it too. He felt it that time, I know he did. Didn’t he? He felt…what? A feeling? A spark behind the eyes like a waking dream? No. No, don’t be stupid. Of course he didn’t._

Another voice then, lazy and impatient, a drawl that had been getting increasingly grouchy in recent weeks, as if his own mind was mocking him. _Why don’t you just bloody ask him instead of torturing yourself? When did asking so many questions do anybody any good? Trust me, I should know, so you should know. Why are you so stubborn? He’s supposed to be the stubborn one._

_If I survive this hangover,_ Crowley thought, as the other voice fell into sulky silence, _it will be a miracle_.

***

“I’m so happy we finally got to meet, little one.” Luci gripped Crowley’s hands and their smile was the glint of sunshine on a mountain lake. “Please say you’ll join us next time too. I want to hear all about your next show, tell this one to take videos.”

“That would involve learning how to use his phone.” Crowley laughed, heard Zira grumble something vaguely insulting next to him. “Goodnight, Raphael. Thank you for dinner, it was spectacular.”

“You see this?” Raphael said, gesturing at Crowley with a flourish. “_Spectacular_. That’s how you thank a man for dinner. Take notes, you greedy little bookseller.”

“Oh, please. Give him a shot of tequila and you won’t believe how fast that halo slips.”

As Raphael and Luci disappeared into the night, presumably off to crash a very luxurious party where everybody knew their names, a dog walker and a bookseller were left standing outside the restaurant.

“Well, that went well, didn’t it?” Crowley asked, stabbing at his phone to order a taxi. _Straight home_, he told himself, _before you fall asleep where you stand._

“Yes, rather too well, that’s what I’m worried about. Soon it’ll be you they’re visiting for lunch and then who will bring me my lunchtime sushi?”

“I think we’ve learned today that I’ll bring you whatever it is you demand, angel. Lift home?”

“I think I’ll walk, if that’s all right, it’s not far.”

“Yes, better had,” Crowley conceded. “We know what happens when you get into the back of a taxi for too long.”

“I don’t know what in the world you’re talking about.”

“Oh? You’re still going to pretend you don’t remember?”

“Remember what?” Zira was beginning to grow nervous. Did Crowley remember as much as he did? _Oh dear._ There were still some gaps in his memory but he remembered enough to know that he was locked and loaded for a repeat performance. Still, as sobriety had reared its reticent head he had been hoping they’d just never mention the specifics again and quietly get on with patiently waiting for the next time one of them was brave enough to make the first move.

“Spotted this in the shower earlier. Thought you’d leave me with a souvenir?” Crowley looked around to make sure they weren’t being watched, then began unbuttoning his jeans.

“What in _god’s _name are you doing?” Zira hissed, eyes fixed on the pale strip of skin visible between Crowley’s waistband and t-shirt.

“Oh, this is all on you.” He unzipped his jeans, tugged the waistband of his boxers down until a little bruise in the unmistakeable shape of two curved rows of teeth was visible on his hip. “I mean, I won’t know for sure unless you’ve got a copy of your dental records handy but I’m fairly positive nobody else has been in the vicinity of my nethers in the last twenty four hours.”

“What the _HELL_ happened last night?” As it turned out, one of the gaps in Zira’s memory included the moments he had spent appreciating the soft stretch of skin above Crowley’s hip with his teeth, shortly before everything had gone dizzy and he’d lost something of himself to the night.

“You happened, angel.” Crowley winked at him and swung into the waiting cab, leaving Zira on the pavement to stare after him with a look of wonder and shock at his own debauchery.

It had been, he had to admit, one hell of a Halloween weekend.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello pals! I hope you all had a brilliant weekend (Monday not too Mondayish etc). 
> 
> First of all, thank you so much for all the support on the latest Morocco chapter (here, in case anyone wanted to read/didn't know where to find it: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20528282/chapters/48723452). I actually had a little cry reading your comments, so thank you <3
> 
> Chapter 15 is coming on Wednesday! 
> 
> I'm excited to sit down and reply to any comments here/on A Case of You that I missed before I left for Brighton so apologies in advance for any rambling on my part, you know how it is :D.


	15. From Where You Are

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Aziraphale, Saviour of the Economy. It has quite a ring to it, don’t you think?

**Somewhere.**

Angel? 

It’s me.

Can you hear me?

I wish you could hear me.

I miss you, angel. I miss you so much I don’t know how to bear it. 

I miss hearing you whine at the crossword. I miss the way the sunset turns your hair into fire, the way your eyes turn into storms in the darkness. I miss the way your heart races next to mine, the way you fit into my arms as if we were carved from the same piece of rock. I miss you tutting at me, I miss you rolling your eyes, I miss you telling me to slow down, that I go too fast. I miss you stealing my dessert. I miss your voice in my ear when you’re a breath away from sleep. I miss _you_.

I wish I could talk to you again. It was so sudden that night when they slipped, so quick. I wasn’t ready. We only had a minute and I wasted it. But you knew it was me, didn’t you? You felt it was me. I knew it was you. I felt it when you changed. I knew it was you before you said a word. Just for a minute. But it was something. Everything.

I should be used to it by now, shouldn’t I? Watching you from a distance. Waiting. So close. So maddeningly close. But I’m not used to it. I never will be. Is it safe yet? Are we safe? Did we do it?

I told you, didn’t I, that I would chase you around and around the world? I think we can make that plural now. I will follow you beyond worlds, to this one and the next and the next, if that’s what it takes.

Do you have any idea how frustrating this is, angel? No, I don’t expect you do. I expect you’ve made yourself quite comfortable, sipping metaphorical cocoa and eating metaphorical cake and dabbing at your perfect face with a metaphorical napkin. The posh ones, of course, not the paper ones. They wouldn’t do, would they? _Ghastly_. I can hear you say it.

I expect the two of you are firm friends already. The literal angel on his shoulder, aren’t you? He’s flourished, hasn’t he? Is that down to you? Or down to me? Well, not _me_. I can’t take credit, can I? It’s all yours. All of this. Even this…limbo. I should have known you’d make me wait just a little bit longer. Habit of a lifetime, eh? Paying me back for dunking the duck, are you? I will wait. Of course I will. Six thousand years, what’s a few more weeks? Months? Don’t make me wait years, angel, please. I need you. 

I can’t wait to be with you again. I can be patient, we both know that. But it’s hard, it’s so bloody hard to feel you so close. I would give everything, every bottle of wine, every vintage Bentley, every star in the sky, to hold your face in my hands and tell you how utterly, eternally devoted I am to you. Do you know that? Do you know just how much I love you? I can’t wait to show you every single day, every moment of every single day.

He’s fallen for you already. Well, not _you_. Do you know? Does Zira know that? He’s so…stubborn, though. Did you think I’d get restless without a challenge? He’s certainly that. That _mind_. And I thought I asked a lot of questions. You have no idea, Aziraphale. He never stops. He can’t stop. If he stops moving then the questions start and he’s paralysed. That’s something of me in him then.

He’s like a star, isn’t he? Something bright, something people want to know. Is that how you see me, angel? Watching him is like I’m looking at everything I could have been. That’s what they are, aren’t they? Everything we might have been if the world was different. I wouldn’t trade it, though. All the hiding, all the running. It led us here. Somewhere we can be together. _Somewhere. One day. _It feels so close. Not long, I can feel it. They’re almost there.

I see so much of you in Zira. Looking at him is like looking into the past. It’s like looking at who you were all those years ago. Fear. Hesitation. What is he so afraid of? It’s love. The simplest thing. The only thing that makes sense. Help him, angel, show him he has nothing to fear. Be gentle with him, I know you will be. He’ll get there. It might take a while. But we can wait, can’t we? Impatiently.

What will happen to us when it’s time? When we can be together again? What will happen to them? Do you know? Of course you do. You always have a plan. You’re the smart one. The handsome one too. And the brave one. You’ve been so brave, Aziraphale. I’m so proud of you, of everything you’ve done for us. Raphael would be proud. Thank you, angel, thank you for giving them their own paradise after all this time. I can’t wait to tell you all this.

Nice job on the world, by the way. All those crepe stands. Couldn’t help yourself, could you? God, I love you. 

***

Crowley? 

My love?

I think it worked.

I think I did it.

Somewhere safe. Somewhere to run to where nobody can find us.

I know you’re out there, with him, just beyond reach. Under the same sky, waiting. Always waiting for me. So patient. I will make every single day of the rest of your life worth the wait, I swear to you.

I can barely believe I’m asking you to wait again, that I’m asking you for patience. No more, after this, you have my word. This is the last time you will ever have to wait. It’s all I could think to do. There was so little time. But you were right. I had everything I needed. We built it, didn’t we, together? All those years of running, those wonderful, awful nights when escaping was all we could do. We built it, this dream.

What do you think of it, this world? I think it turned out all right, all things considered. The pressure of the eternal void breathing down your neck doesn't make the best conditions for creation but even so. I just wish it wasn’t tied to Earth. The flood in the bookshop, it was…the tribulation, the tests. It’s tethered, somehow. Might have made a bit of a mess of things there. It will last, though. Maybe not forever, but long enough. I might have overdone it on the sushi front, admittedly. Still, who can say no to half price temaki? Aziraphale, Saviour of the Economy. It has quite a ring to it. Do you know, Crowley, that I would forgo sushi for the rest of my days to hear your sarcastic reply to that? I can hear you now. Almost. I can feel you next to me. Almost. Just out of reach. Always just out of reach. Soon, though, we will never be apart again. No more waiting, no more patience, just everything we were always too afraid to hope for. You and me. Together, always. For good, this time.

I’m still finding surprises in this world. Things so hidden in my heart I didn’t know they were still there. The portal, did you feel it too? I didn’t think…after what happened, I didn’t think I would ever be able to…it was the shop, I think. It was ingrained in the shop. Did you hear Raphael? Sweet Raphael. I wish we could tell them we’re here, that we’re safe, that we made it together. That they made it too. Both of them, together, somehow. Perhaps one day. They did so much for us, Crowley. Things I’m only just beginning to realise. I think perhaps more than we’ll ever know.

I need to keep Zira away from that thing, the portal, if he’ll listen. Not that he likes to listen to me. He tunes me out, if you can believe that. The audacity. He thinks I’m pushy. I don’t push, I gently nudge. Perhaps I’ve taken it too far on occasion. It’s just that when I see you, Crowley, I can’t just be here and do nothing.

I, er, perhaps I need to apologise. It appears I got a little…bitey on Halloween night, rather too into the spirit of things. I might have taken advantage of the moment after you said my name and Zira let his guard down. He does it so infrequently I knew I had a limited window of opportunity. I know how fond you are of souvenirs. Best I could do, given the circumstances.

The portal… Raphael’s voice… They can sense us, my love. But they can’t see us. We’re safe here. We’ll stay hidden. It would take a miracle for them to find us. Yes, that was a joke. Proud of that one. Easy to come up with zingers when you have twenty four hours a day to do nothing other than watch yourself fret about a handsome dog walker and pine for your so-near-so-far love. I can all but hear you sighing from here. If only you could hear me.

Maybe we can speed things up with a little creativity? Have a word with Anthony, will you? Whisper about the benefits of taxi rides over walking. That would do the trick, I’m sure, if Halloween if anything to go by. Stroke of brilliance with the costumes. Your demonic work, I presume? Divine fancy dress, a spell in the back of a taxi and ungodly amounts of alcohol, it was a perfect storm. What I would have given for one more moment with you, one more second. To hear you say my name after all this time, to reach out and touch you... Paradise. 

It's like I told you, paradise would be getting to do it all over again. To love you properly, the way you deserve, without wasting all of that precious time. They’re taking a while though, aren’t they? I rather thought they’d be a bit speedier than this. All that…dithering. Is this what it was like for you, waiting for me? How did you stay so patient? I’m trying to be gentle with him, I really am, I know he needs a soft hand but I need you, my love, I need to be with you so desperately. 

He’s so sad. I wish I could take his hand, lead him through this, show him there’s nothing to be afraid of. There’s no sense in fearing love. By the time you start to fear it it’s too late, you’ve already fallen. He has fallen, do you know that? It scares him. More than that. He’s terrified, Crowley. It’s heartbreaking, listening to all that fear. I gave that to him. How many years, how many centuries did I waste on fear? Now I’m watching it all unfold in front of me again and there’s nothing I can do but wait.

He keeps…pushing me away. I try to talk to him, to tell him not to be afraid. He shuts me out. I know he remembers, I know he does. The sword, he almost took it down one night. He knew it belonged in his hands. He’ll stop sometimes in the shop, pick up one of the books and flick through it as if he’s looking for something. A sign. An echo. I’m giving him all the signs I can. Do you know he thinks I’m a figment of his imagination?_ I’ve been reading too many books_, he thought the other day. Can you believe it? Too many books, what a notion. So stuck in his ways. So scared of doing the wrong thing. God, if you were here you’d be giving me _that_ look. I know, I know. Is it any wonder he’s like this, with me as a blueprint?

The weight of it, of what he feels, of everything that’s changing, it’s too much for him. It’s too much, too fast. If you could only feel how much he wants it. It’s all he’s ever wanted, something like this. It’s magic to him, for his heart to finally find a home. He feels safe with you, do you know that? He can breathe easily around you, he can just _be_. He can’t believe it’s real, that something like this would happen to somebody like him, somebody who hides away from the world. He didn’t bank on you, though, did he? Who can know you and not fall for you? Sometimes I wonder if you pushed me clean off of the gate in Eden, if that’s why it feels like I’ve been falling ever since.

Where would we be if I wasn’t so afraid? I know you tell me not to think about them, the roads not travelled. But I can’t stop. I won’t ever stop regretting all of those years of running. I should have stood tall, stood by your side, been who you deserved from day one. I will be, though, today and every other day that comes after. I will never let you down again. 

You saved us. You saved us on that day in the park, on the last day. You gave me everything I needed to create this place. Creation. It’s just like you said. I held everything that mattered in my heart. You, you, always you. It’s always beat just for you. You gave me something to believe in when everything else I believed in stopped making sense. My North Star, the centre of everything, that’s what I told you once. And you’ve only got brighter since. We’re so close, my love. I don’t know what comes after, all I know is that we’ll be together from now until the end, whatever happens. Nothing can tear us apart again. Not now, not ever. 

I love you, Crowley, I can’t wait to see you again. I can’t wait for our paradise to begin. We’ve earned it. God, we’ve earned it.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ANSWERED A FEW QUESTIONS, DID IT? :D
> 
> I imagine it might have raised a few more questions so...have at me, my feral friends, I'll be around in the comments this evening :).
> 
> Next chapter is coming on Friday!
> 
> Hope you're all having a delightful hump day <3


	16. Wires

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> *** Hi loves. A note from me at the beginning this time. Ominous, I know. Forewarning, this one’s angsty but I promise everyone’s all right by the end of the chapter. No cliffhangers when it comes down to this sort of thing <3. Spoilers in the comments so I’d avoid them until after reading. ***

**December. St James’s Park, London.**

The first day in December was a perfect winter day. The sky was azure blue without a cloud in sight, the sun hung distantly above the park and a light breeze blew brittle leaves up into miniature tornados across the paths.

Barnaby pounced on a stray leaf, ears flattening against his head in confusion as it crumbled away into nothing underneath his heavy paws. He looked back at Crowley to check he was watching, before identifying another victim to fall prey to his cunning attack.

“Top of the food chain, mate.” Crowley reached down to pat him on the shoulder, unclipping his lead as they walked further into the park. He turned his collar up against the chilly air, plunged his hands into his pockets and followed Barnaby, who was cantering happily down the path ahead of him.

His thoughts turned, as they always seemed to, to Zira. Specifically, to the last time they had been together. It had been a regular enough business meeting, all things considered. A quiet evening the previous week, spent in the back room of the shop as was customary; Crowley with both legs sprawled across the arm of his favourite armchair as he worked in silence, fingers flying over the keyboard as he brought the last back end touches to ZFellBooks.co.uk into being, while Zira pottered about opposite him, unpacking books, smoothing dust jackets and tutting about where in the world he was going to find space for them all.

“You can store some at my place, I told you.” Crowley had looked up over the screen of his laptop to find Zira with his fists balled against his hips, wiping his brow with the effort of stacking boxes of books into a teetering tower against the wall. “I’ve got loads of space.”

Zira had shot him a dubious look.

“All right, not _loads_ of space. But you’re welcome to what I do have.”

Zira had softened, as if the offer meant far more than the space for a couple of boxes of rare books to be secreted away in a cupboard. He had reached out for him then, taken his hand for a moment. “Thank you, that’s very kind. Let me pay you back, though, I insist.”

“Zira, I’m not going to charge you rent to stash a few books behind my sofa.” He’d laughed, met Zira’s eyes and held his gaze until it felt near enough a challenge, albeit one they both intended to rise to. “Dinner. Pay me back with dinner one night.”

It was simple enough, the idea of two friends sharing dinner, something they both did with their own friends without question. This, though, was something different. One more step forward. Something official. They had parted ways at the end of the evening with plans to meet the next week for their usual website check in with one added bonus.

“I know just where to go,” Zira had said with an elusive smile. “You’ll love it. Just your scene.”

“My scene,” Crowley grinned, relishing the idea of Zira thinking he was part of any scene at all. “Next week. It’s a date.”

“A date,” Zira had echoed.

Unbeknownst to each other, neither had thought of much else since. And now, finally, the day had arrived.

Back in the frosty park, a string of barks cut through Crowley’s daydream and he turned to see a black blur whip past him in pursuit of a very familiar labradoodle who was straining at his lead at the side of the road that ran around the edge of the park.

“Come on!” The dog’s owner tugged at the lead in an attempt to call her dog to attention but, after a long break apart that both dogs were ready to put an end to, Angel was just as keen to get to Barnaby as Barnaby was to get to his forbidden friend.

“Barnaby!” Crowley yelled, taking off after him, adopting the traditional pose of waving the lead in the air as if that meant anything at all.

Barnaby was nothing if not determined, it was one of the things Crowley adored most about him, the way he would stop at nothing to achieve a goal once he’d made his canine mind up about it. The problem in this particular situation was that Crowley’s fitness regime had slipped somewhat of late, given his pre-occupation with reclining on a comfortable armchair in a very dusty bookshop in Soho that had taken priority over chilly jogs through the park. _Still_, he thought, as he broke into a run, _needs must_.

“Heel, Angel, come on now.” Hissing the final word as if she was all out of patience, Angel’s owner looked both ways across the road before stalking across it, reluctant dog sadly trailing behind her, looking back over his shoulder every few paces to gaze balefully at Barnaby. Safe and sound on the far side of the road, they continued on their walk and disappeared around the corner.

Barnaby did not slow down. He had seen where Angel had gone, after all, and he was sure if he could just get to him they’d be able to play a very lovely game of fetch, or perhaps sprawl happily by the pond and bark at the ducks, he wasn’t fussy.

“Come _here! _He’s gone, you big oaf.” Crowley slowed to a stop, laughing as he braced his hands on his thighs and called fruitlessly after Barnaby. He would make it to the exit any moment, would realise pursuit was pointless and come trotting back, tail swishing happily as he looked up at his dishevelled owner, wondering what all the yelling had been about.

On that perfect winter day, however, Barnaby did not stop at the exit of the park. Curiosity got the better of him and he hurtled right through the gate and into the icy road, just as a car came speeding around the corner.

There was the squeal of brakes applied a second too late, a yelp that was buried under the sound of a car hitting a large object, and all Crowley could do was stand and stare in horror as the world fell away beneath him.

***

“He came out of nowhere, I couldn’t stop, I’m so sorry, is he-”

There were voices somewhere in the distance, repeated apologies and hushed whispers and offers of lifts to the nearest veterinary surgery. Crowley didn’t hear them. There was a hand on his shoulder, a kind face bent low next to his as an older gentleman joined him on his knees at the side of the road. A blanket had appeared from somewhere, a towel had joined it a moment later, the white cotton stained with claggy crimson blood as the man placed it on the ground next to them.

“Is he yours?” the man asked, voice quiet and concerned.

Crowley vaguely registered his voice, felt himself nodding as he crouched over Barnaby, hands hovering just above the dog’s left shoulder, which was twisted at an angle that was excruciating to even look at, the bone above his paw splintering the skin. Crowley’s fingers tangled in the soft coils of fur behind his ears and he leaned in close, careful not to come into contact with his body.

“It’s me, I’m here,” he murmured the words, swallowing thickly and blinking away tears that he knew would come the moment he forgot to push them down. “Don’t you think about leaving me, my best boy, don’t you dare.”

He felt the tiniest lick dampen his cheek, looked down to see Barnaby panting weakly, gazing up at him as if he didn’t understand what had just happened and why he _hurt_ so much, but sweetly trusting that Crowley would somehow make it better.

It tore a piece of his soul away, listening to Barnaby’s quiet little whines as they gently wrapped the back half of his body in the blanket. He was shivering, a combination of the weather and shock, the man explained, as he dabbed gently at the road rash that the impact of hitting the ground at such force had caused, stripping fur and skin away from Barnaby’s right shoulder, transforming it into a mass of tarmac and blood.

“Can you carry him?” the man asked, gesturing to the car that was parked haphazardly on the other side of the road. “There’s a clinic, it’s not far. They take emergencies.”

“Thank you,” Crowley breathed, looking properly at the man for the first time, smiling thinly at him as he scooped his arms carefully under Barnaby’s broken body and picked him up, feeling tears spill over as the dog uttered a pained yelp, his left foreleg dangling uselessly. The crowd had begun to disperse by then, normal programming resuming as they turned away. There was only Crowley, one kind stranger, and the driver of the car that had hit Barnaby. She followed them for a few paces, uttering apologies until Crowley, on autopilot, told her it wasn’t her fault, if only to get her to stop talking.

***

“Don’t,” he whispered, shaking his head at the vet as she unbuckled a soft muzzle and guided it over Barnaby’s nose. “Please don’t. He won’t bite you, he wouldn’t.”

“Animals in pain can lash out,” she explained, pausing to curl slim fingers around his shoulder. She saw it, the need to take a second and administer that small comfort, a reassuring touch. “It’s only for a little while while we assess him.”

She turned to the nurse then, began murmuring words Crowley could barely make out. A drip. Shock. Internal bleeding. A shoulder luxation. A fracture. Road rash. Next to him Barnaby lay quietly on the table, his chest shuddering and falling with shallow breaths. Crowley slipped two fingers underneath the muzzle, stroked the soft fuzz next to his nose and leaned close to him.

“I’m so sorry, my boy, I’m so sorry. This is my fault. Please be okay, please don’t leave me.”

A whine, laboured and quiet, and then a quick shake of his head as he tried to dislodge the muzzle.

“It’s okay, it’s okay. It’s not for long. It’s just while they fix you up, and then we can go home.” His voice hitched on the last word and he covered his mouth with one hand, forced his breathing back to normal. _Not here, not here, not here._

“Sir, we’re going to need you to wait outside.” The vet gave him a gentle smile, gestured to the nurse who swung the consultation room door open. “We need to get him on a drip, make sure he’s not in shock before we carry out some tests and determine the surgery he needs. We might be an hour or so, if you want to leave your contact details with reception we can-”

“I’ll wait,” he snapped, the words coming out harsher than he’d intended. “Sorry, I’ll wait. I’ll wait outside.”

She smiled again, and that patient understanding was somehow all the more painful. _Somebody blame me. Somebody tell me this is my fault. Stop being so…nice to me. _“There’s a drinks machine round in reception. We’ll let you know where we stand as soon as we can.”

He nodded, bent low to press his forehead to Barnaby’s, breathed in the scent of him, grass and the fresh air, undercut with the iron tang of blood. “I promise, B, I promise you’ll be okay. I’ll see you soon. I love you, be a good boy.”

***

“It’s me. I can’t make it tonight. Barnaby’s…Barnaby’s been in an accident. I’m at the vets now. I’m sorry, I’ll call you later.” Crowley hung up the phone and slipped it back into his pocket.

Voice mail. Of course. Ever actually getting through to Zira on the phone was universally acknowledged as one of the great wonders of the world. He would hear it ringing, usually, if he’d remembered to charge it, would hear that deep vibration echo out and mutter to himself about where the devil he’d left that infernal thing. He’d find it, eventually, usually under a stack of cursed paperwork. If you were lucky he might call you back within the same twenty four hour period.

Crowley leaned forward, elbows digging into his thighs as he held his head in his hands and pressed his fingers to his closed eyes. There was nobody else seated in the row of blue plastic chairs that ran down the corridor by the consultation rooms. All the registered owners were waiting in the warm reception room around the corner, dogs panting at the end of leads and cats coiled sulkily in plastic pet carriers. Crowley, however, was a walk in, and walk ins were rarely there for any other reason than a dire emergency. He had been grateful for the privacy, the ability to wait right outside the room in case they…needed him for any reason.

_He’ll be okay, he’ll be okay. He has to be._ The words flashed through his mind, affirmations repeated over and over until they became a mantra, something to cling to, something that felt as though it could have enough power to manifest itself into being if he tried hard enough.

How had this happened? One moment Barnaby was galloping through the park without a care in the word, legs pumping so fast it was as if he was sailing through the air, wild and free, a curious ball of energy that couldn’t rest until he had his answers. A second later, that awful screech, that haunting sound of a strangled yelp, the sound of air being forced out of a pair of lungs. And then only the silence until another sound came, something that sounded foreign, as though it couldn’t possibly be coming from his own mouth. But it was, and it had.

_It’s going to change him. He won’t be able to run any more. He won’t be able to explore. He’ll hate it. He’ll hate having to stay near my side. This is my fault, I wasn’t watching him. I should have kept him close. I never should have let him wander so far. If anything happens to him this is on me. I did this._

It was the only thing he could control, the blame. Everything else hung in limbo, existence on pause until somebody would make their way out of that sterile room and give him a smile or a shake of the head.

***

He had tried to count the number of times he’d paced up and down that quiet corridor. As silent as the grave, save for the rhythmic footsteps up and down and up and down. He’d lost count around number thirty, didn’t know how long had passed since then. It felt like hours. It might have been hours. His head was nothing but a bag of flour clenched in a fist that was squeezing it tighter and tighter. But he kept the tears at bay, swallowed them every time they threatened to make a reappearance. _Not here. You don’t get to cry over this. You don’t get to feel sorry for yourself, not when you caused it._

The door to the consultation room creaked open. Crowley froze, hands clasped behind his head. _Please. Please, please, please._

“We’re prepping him for surgery now.” The vet glanced down at the clipboard resting in the crook of her elbow. “We need to get that leg into a cast. The fracture is below the knee so he shouldn’t need plates but we need to realign the bone. He has two broken ribs on his left side but my hope is we can go with the external fixation route. It’s my preferred method, less traumatic. He had a nasty shoulder luxation, a dislocation from the impact. Thankfully there were no signs of organ damage. He was lucky.”

She smiled then, as if it was all positive news, as if Crowley’s mind wasn’t reeling with the horror of bone realignment and broken ribs. His boy, his sweet boy, laid out on a surgery table, a tube down his throat, his shaky breathing rattling around the room. He closed his eyes. _Don’t think about it. If you think about it you’ll never be able to unsee it._

“Thank you,” he said, as if there was anything else to say. _Thank you for saving him, thank you for looking after him better than I can, thank you for giving him a second chance. I promise I won’t screw this up, I promise._

“It’s not a complex surgery but he’ll be under general anaesthetic so we’ll keep him under observation for a few hours. The nurses will let you know if you can take him home tonight. We’ll call you as soon as-”

“I’ll be here. I’ll wait.”

The vet nodded, glanced back down at her notes. “I just need you to sign this consent form. Have a read through it, let reception know if you have any questions, give it back to them when you’re ready.”

She left him alone to sink down on one of those stiff chairs and stare uselessly at the form in front of him. The letters swam on the page as his eyes glazed over. He couldn’t focus on the words, couldn’t focus on much of anything other than wanting this day to be over, wanting to be back at the flat with Barnaby, to tug the curtains closed and shut out the world until the nightmare was just that, a bad dream that would fizzle into nothingness as soon as he opened his eyes, the dark memory slithering back into the shadows. But it wasn’t a nightmare and it didn’t slither away when he opened his eyes. It was there, still, in the glaring artificial lighting. It was there, still, in the sharp chemical smell of sterilisation, of death and grief and hope that hung in the corridors like a fog.

He scribbled a signature on the forms and handed them in at the reception desk, stared down at the ground to avoid meeting the eyes of the other pet owners waiting by reception. He could feel their concern, felt as though a spotlight was shining down on his back. _That’s one of the unlucky ones, one of the ones who wasn’t careful, who wasn’t watching. That’s why we keep our dog on a lead, you see. You can’t be too careful, you never know what might happen._

_If anything happens to him in there, if anything happens to him it’s my fault. I will never forgive myself. _He slunk back to the merciful silence of the corridor, noticed a sweep of scarlet on his wrist as his shirt cuff rode up just a fraction. Blood. Barnaby’s blood, dried onto his skin. He ran a finger over it. As smooth as if it had always been there, as if the guilt had seeped into him, was part of him now.

Crowley didn’t pray. Had never prayed, not really, not with any real intention. But as he sat alone, desperate, in that corridor, he closed his eyes and he prayed, though it brought him little comfort. It was something to do. A bet to hedge.

_Please_, he begged, _please let him be okay. Just let him make it through. I swear I’ll be more careful. I’ll do anything. Just let him be okay._

_It was inevitable_, came a quiet whisper in his mind, those thoughts he had spent years trying to outrun by working himself to exhaustion so he could collapse into bed at the end of a busy day and sleep right through, those thoughts that reared their heads if he stayed still for too long. _Too happy. You got complacent. You could lose it all at any time, you know that. Don’t get too comfortable. Life doesn’t care if you’re finally content. Life will always do what it will do._

***

Crowley had tuned out the background noise of the clinic, had let all of the barking and laughing and clicking of nails against the tiled floors fade into white noise as he waited. It was all a dull buzz, a minor irritation, until he heard a voice cut through the din that was so familiar it was as if a safe pair of arms had just wrapped themselves around him.

“Hello, yes, can you help me? Barnaby, is he here? Surname, Crowley. He was in an accident. He’s big and black. A dog. Big, black dog.”

“Yes, we have him here. Sir, if you could just take a seat…”

“Is he _okay_, for heaven’s sake?” There was panic in the voice, frustration too, as if he was all out of patience.

A pause, then the swipe of a computer mouse against a desk, a series of clicks. “Yes, he’s the next in for surgery.”

“Oh, thank god.” An audible sigh of relief. In the corridor, Crowley pulled himself to his feet. “Where is he?”

“I'm afraid you can’t see him right now, he’s being prepared for-”

“His owner.”

“You’re not his owner?”

“I’m family.” The words sounded out without a moment’s hesitation and out in the corridor something in Crowley’s heart broke even further.

Zira rushed out of the reception, face frantic with worry as he looked up and down the corridor until he found what he was looking for. Then he was dashing towards Crowley, shabby jacket flaring out behind him.

Crowley sagged against him, everything he had held together that afternoon pouring away as the tears came, finally. Zira caught him, arms tight around his shoulders as he pulled him close, whispering words into his hair that were too quiet to make out. He didn’t need to know what Zira was saying, just needed to hear his voice to know that he wasn’t alone. Not any more.

***

“I called him a big oaf.” Crowley sighed, taking a sip of bitter cocoa and swallowing it with a grimace. He held the paper cup out towards Zira, accepted the lukewarm cup of tea in return. They had been sitting there, side by side, waiting for the results of Barnaby’s surgery as they silently rotated drinks back and forth whenever the stillness got too oppressive.

“He _is_ a big oaf. A perfectly imperfect big fluffy oaf.”

“What if something happens in there and that’s the last thing he’ll ever have remembered me saying to him?”

Zira took his hand, slid his fingers through Crowley’s and rested their entwined hands on his knee, thumb gently stroking the length of Crowley’s index finger. “He knows how much you love him. That has to help, it can’t do anything but. It gives us strength, being loved, animals too.”

“Love doesn’t fix broken bones, angel.”

Zira looked away, sheepish. “Oh. No, I know that. I just meant…”

“I’m sorry. I know what you meant. Just a bit…tense.” He smiled weakly, gripped onto Zira’s hand all the more, giving it a little shake of gratitude. He stopped suddenly, looked up as something dawned on him. “How did you know where we were? I never told you.”

“Oh, er, I didn’t. Rather more vets in London than I thought. Fourth time’s the charm though.” Zira exhaled a laugh, raised his eyebrows at the memory of bursting dramatically into the first veterinary surgery, only for his insistence that somebody escort him to Barnaby Crowley’s room to be met with amused laughter. The second and third clinics hadn’t fared much better but he was damned if he was going to give up until he found them. Crowley might appear to have an uncrackable veneer but Zira knew this was a storm he shouldn’t be left to weather alone, regardless of the fact he would never come right out and ask for help.

“Thank you.” As if those two words could begin to express it, that solidarity of somebody sitting quietly by your side, making sure you always had a drink to hold so your hands didn’t fidget, making sure there was a shoulder for when the tears came, an ear when you needed to talk, understanding when you didn’t. “Will you stay with me, just for a little bit longer?”

“I’ll sit here with you, keep you plied with terrible cocoa, all of it, for as long as you need me. I told you, we’re a team, you and me.”

“Our side,” Crowley murmured, the words spiralling up like fallen leaves shaken free by the wind.

“Yes. Quite.” Zira smiled, reinforced the statement with a nod. “And when you’re ready, if you’d still like to, perhaps we can…”

There was the creak of a door at the end of a corridor before one of the veterinary nurses stepped through, eyes fixed on Crowley as she walked briskly towards them. Crowley sprang up, still gripping Zira’s hand as he tugged him to his feet.

“Please, please, please.” He closed his eyes, breathed the words so quietly they were barely audible, only Zira heard the whispered pleading in his voice. The bookseller squeezed his hand, scanned the nurse’s face for any sign of happiness, or something else. She was neutral, a closed book.

“He’s coming round now…”

Crowley didn’t hear another word she said. He was vaguely aware she was still speaking, that she had turned her focus to Zira when it was clear Crowley wasn’t retaining anything, handed him a slip of paper. They spoke back and forth, Zira’s voice light with relief, and all Crowley could think was _thank you, thank you, I swear I’ll do better, I swear._

“…You should be able to see him in half an hour or so. We’ll wait for him to wake up first. We’ll need to run a few more tests but you should be able to take him home tonight. We’ll run through the aftercare with you before he’s discharged. I’ll let you know when you can see him.” She smiled, reached out to squeeze his arm and then disappeared back into the room, the door swinging closed before Crowley could see that telltale ruff of black fur.

“He’s okay.” Crowley exhaled a long, weighty sigh and paced in a tight circle. The world rose back into being with the relief that yes, they might have a long road ahead of them, no, it wasn’t going to be simple, but he was okay. He was alive. He was going to be fine. He turned back to Zira, breaking into a smile, heard a laugh escape his lips. Next to him, the bookseller beamed back, folded the slip of paper in half and tucked it inside his jacket.

“God, look at me, I’m a mess.” Crowley wiped the side of his hand against one eye and then the other, swiping away tears that had sprung up so easily. “Stupid. Crying all bloody afternoon.” They were both laughing then, Crowley throwing his arms around Zira’s neck and pressing his forehead into his shoulder, laughing with the sheer relief. “Thank you, thank you.”

“Oh, I don’t know if you should thank me, all I did was keep you topped up with caffeine and sugar.” Zira slid an arm around his back, leaned his head against Crowley’s.

Crowley pulled back then, just a fraction, just enough to press his lips against Zira’s. Softly, sweetly, for no longer than a heartbeat. And then again, once more, just to be sure.

***

“Guys.” The nurse leaned out of the consultation room, waved them over. “You can see him now.”

Startled awake at the sound of her voice, Crowley raised his head from Zira’s shoulder, pretended to ignore the wet streak of dribble he’d left on his jacket. _Real seductive, that_. He pulled Zira up to his feet with one hand, caught the little motion of the bookseller’s head as he nodded towards the reception area. “I’ll leave you to it, if you’re okay from here.”

Crowley opened his mouth to tell him no, to ask him to stay. But Zira was right, wasn’t he? He needed, no, he wanted to do this by himself, to take a moment to be alone with Barnaby, to talk to the nurses and find out exactly what the road to recovery entailed. There would be time enough for them to be together, for Crowley to ask him to stay, but not that day. He'd done enough, done more than enough, really, but there was one last thing Zira wanted to do, one last way to say _I'm here, I've got you_.

“I’ll call you.” Crowley looked back, reached for his hand one last time. “When we’re settled.”

“Take as long as you need. I’ll be here.” Zira smiled, then there was only the sound of his footsteps retreating down the corridor as Crowley was led into the room by the nurse with the steady, calming eyes.

***

“Thank you for everything.” Crowley cleared his throat to give himself something to do other than hug the nurse and cry all over her shoulder. It had been a long day, the worst day, and every little kindness left him with tears in his eyes. He'd cried so many tears it felt as though he should be running on empty but there was still enough gratitude, enough sweet gestures to drum up more tears from that great reserve of grief.

It was almost empty in the reception area, just Crowley and the nurse, who slipped behind the counter to sit down at the desk and bring up Barnaby’s file. “Do you have somebody meeting you? We can call you a taxi otherwise.”

“I have someone coming, thanks.” He turned to look out of the window, squinted into the darkness to see if Mick had arrived in his battered old 4x4. He hadn’t, but he wouldn’t be long. He’d picked up on the second ring, had only asked three questions before he hung up with the promise he’d leave that second: _is he okay? Are you okay? What’s the address?_

Crowley turned back to the desk, steeled himself to ask the question he had been dreading all day, that question he had tried not to think about.

“I know, er, the…the bill…do you have any payment plans?” He allowed himself a slow blink as the words left his mouth, hoped he’d miss the inevitable flicker of pity married with awkwardness on the nurse’s face. You’re only ever one unforeseen disaster away from ruin; he’d heard that phrase somewhere before. An advert, maybe. Life insurance, business insurance, surely some kind of insurance, another expense he couldn’t afford. _I can sell the car. I don’t need it anyway. No one needs a car in London, not really._

There was no pity to be found on her face, nor awkwardness, just a little lift of surprise in her eyebrows. “Oh, you’re all settled up, sir.”

“What?” Crowley leaned forward, elbows resting on the edge of the desk.

“Your partner paid on his way out earlier.”

_Our side_, Crowley thought, as disbelief gave way to a warm bloom of heart-shaped gratitude in his chest. There was no time to register the magnitude of what Zira had done for him, not right away, as that was the moment a 4x4 pulled up outside and the vet came through from the back room cradling Barnaby in her arms, the dog's eyes half-closed with a blend of pain relief and exhaustion.

“Ah, I think your lift is here.” The nurse looked past him and smiled as a little bell rang out to signal somebody had walked through the door. Crowley turned and then, as he caught sight of Mick’s tall, lumbering frame, his wild sweep of hair, he found himself blinking back tears. Again.

“Come here, my boy. Haven’t you two had a day of it? Let’s get you both home.” Mick pulled him into a rough hug and then he really was crying. Again.

_How lucky am I_, Crowley thought, as he stood there in the quiet room, one hand gently stroking Barnaby's chin, and saw Mick's sweet, lined face drop with concern, _how lucky am I to have these people, this family?_ Zira, who had known he shouldn’t be alone, who had sat patiently by his side for hours, who had paid the debt that day so he didn't have to lose sleep over it. Mick, who would get out of bed and drive halfway across the city without a single moment of hesitation. It brought them to the surface, tragedy, it spotlit the good ones. The lights in the darkness.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Happy Friday all! Enjoyed might not be the right word but I hope you enjoyed this all the same. I'll be around in the comments later tonight, as per. 
> 
> Next chapter is coming on Sunday.
> 
> You may have noticed the distinct lack of demon Crowley and Aziraphale in this one but I feel like we're exploring two journeys side by side here - the human experience and the celestial experience. This one felt like it needed to be human-only.
> 
> Oh, and if anyone really wants to lean into the misery, might I be so bold as to suggest Chapter 33 from Part I as a palette cleanser? (https://archiveofourown.org/works/19256467/chapters/47324326)
> 
> There's a lot more lightness on the horizon, I solemnly swear. In the meantime, tell me of your fun weekend plans <3


	17. By Your Side

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> He looked wrung out, eyes red-rimmed, face pinched, lean arms swamped by a t-shirt Zira knew well and good hadn’t been that baggy the last time he’d ogled him in it.

**December. Crowley’s Flat, London.**

Time was relative. It was constant but it was relative, fixed yet fluid, rushing forward or barely trickling by. In the weeks where Crowley and Zira had been caught in that heady whirlwind of creating something out of nothing, when they had danced around the words unsaid and shared worlds with just a look, it felt as though every second between their chance encounters was a torment. _When will I see him again? _Tick, tick, tick. So slow. So maddeningly slow.

In the wake of Barnaby’s accident, though, time had surged forward with all the menace and momentum of a typhoon. The hours blurred together and days would pass without Crowley even registering a new sunrise had dawned. There were only agonising journeys down the three flights of stairs to carry him carefully to the little scrub of grass at the end of the road every four hours so he could do his business and breathe in the fresh air. There were the sleepless nights spent stroking the soft fur behind his ears and watching to make sure he kept breathing, the endless cycles of washing the sheets and towels that covered the wooden floors to make sure he wouldn’t slip, wouldn’t lose his unsteady footing and somehow make things worse. Because they could have been worse. They could have been so much worse.

_Just a dog, just a dog, just a dog_. The words echoed around his brain, some long-dormant sentence he must have overheard years ago, something rearing back up to remind him that his panic, that insidious grip of anxiety, that it was an overreaction, that he needed to get back to normal, to get over it.

_He’s not just a dog, not to you. He’s your world. And you’re his._

_And I let him down._

_This isn’t your fault. You know it’s not your fault, don’t go down that road, guilt won’t lead you to anything good. Trust me on that one._

_If I’d been more careful…_

_It was an accident._

It had been a comfort, that voice, a little respite in his mind that was in his corner. In the darker moments when he felt paralysed by the guilt, when he could barely fathom that life, soon enough, would slip back into its routine, the voice would rise up and talk him down. It had felt like a menace when it had first bloomed in his consciousness those months ago, he had thought it was something of an anti-conscience, but it had softened in recent days, had become something he began to welcome rather than push away.

It was six days after the accident when the intercom buzzed to life in the hallway and Barnaby stirred, his head lifting up as he looked slowly around, woken from a mid-morning nap. Crowley sighed, wondering how long this caller would hang around before they finally left him alone. He appreciated the gestures of kindness from his friends, he really did, appreciated the texts and the well wishes, but what he wanted more than anything was space, just for a few more days, a little more time to work through the worst of it. Mick had understood as easily as the gentle giant understood everything without needing to be told twice. He had sent a card, promised to call round in a week or so with some treats for them both, told Crowley he’d speak with the others, let them know to leave him be, just for a little while. It was out of character, he knew that, knew that was why they were concerned. Little Brother leaning into solitude? Like the sun rising in the west.

The intercom sounded again.

“Yes?” He leaned against the wall with one hand, voice brusque. _Just leave me alone, I’m too busy for whatever this is. There’s washing and medication and work, oh god, all the work I’ve left to stack up._

“Crowley?” A soft voice crackled through the intercom. “It’s, er, it’s me.”

_Of course it’s you, who else can undo me with the sound of my own name?_

***

“I’m sorry I didn’t call.” The words were barely out of Crowley’s mouth before Zira waved them away with a hand, tutting as he stepped over the threshold and bent down to slip his shoes off, sliding them next to Crowley’s underneath the coat hook by the door.

He wouldn’t usually bother, Crowley forever insisting they weren’t a _shoes off_ household, but one quick glance around the flat made it clear that had changed. It was meticulous, not that it had ever been particularly messy, but there wasn’t a single speck of, well, anything on any visible surface. The wooden floors were carpeted with neat rectangles of towels and blankets, so suspiciously perfect that Zira glanced across to the airing cupboard door, _did he iron the towels_? The chemical tang of bleach lingered in the air, despite the windows that had been thrown open to let in the brisk winter breeze, and the living room was devoid of the usual debris of Crowley’s whirlwind life: a stray plectrum on the coffee table, a tangle of cords next to the amp, laptop balanced on the arm of the sofa.

Yes, the flat had been scoured jarringly clean. Crowley himself, however, had clearly received none of the attention that their living space had. He looked wrung out, eyes red-rimmed, face pinched, lean arms swamped by a t-shirt Zira knew well and good hadn’t been that baggy the last time he’d ogled him in it. He was overcome by the urge to reach out, take his face in his hands, to kiss him until he came back to himself, but it wasn’t the time, he knew that. He wasn’t here for that, he was here to be a friend, to lighten the load however he could, even if all that meant was boiling the kettle and listening.

_Thump. Thump. Thump._

Zira followed the source of the sound to find Barnaby stretched out against the base of the sofa, left foreleg stiffly jutting out in a bandage-wrapped cast. He jostled himself onto his stomach and slowly gathered his back legs underneath himself before Zira rushed over and knelt down by his side. “No, no, my handsome chap, let me come to you.”

Barnaby rested his head against Zira’s thighs and gazed up at him as the bookseller stroked the warm lick of fur that flared out from his cheek. “You’ve been in the wars, haven’t you?”

He rifled around in the bag he had slung over one shoulder and pulled out a soft black and white panda toy. He’d spent far longer than he would admit standing in front of the rack of toys at the boutique pet shop he’d visited on the way over, before finally settling on the toy he thought was both the most adorable and the most likely to drive Crowley to distraction once Barnaby was well enough to madden him with the shrieking squeak of it.

“Here you are, for being such a brave boy.” He balanced the panda on his other thigh, let Barnaby sniff it tentatively before his tail thrashed back and forth and he promptly clasped it in his teeth and lay there, panda in mouth, panting happily.

Crowley joined them then, carrying a mug of tea in each hand and squeezing a biscuit tin between his ribs and upper arm. He nudged both mugs onto the edge of the coffee table and cracked open the lid of the tin, which was in the rather fetching shape of a Scottish terrier, something Zira found so warmly comforting he couldn’t help but smile. There was something about the mundane time he spent with Crowley, something in the tea and biscuits, that meant even more than the wild nights, those unexpected adventures. Tea and biscuits and soul-baring honesty, he reasoned, were just another type of adventure and, perhaps, those were his favourite kind.

Crowley sat down next to Zira, leaned back against the base of the sofa until they were thigh to thigh on the floor, legs straight out in front of them, Zira’s feet stretching out as far as Crowley’s ankles. They sat in silence for a moment, one hand clasped around their respective mugs of tea while they both lavished Barnaby with all the attention he deserved. Barnaby, to his credit, made sure to divide his attention equally between them, moving from nuzzling against one hand to the other so nobody felt left out.

“How are things?” Zira asked finally.

“He’s doing so well. He’s been trying to get up on his own today but I’m still using the sling for a while longer so he doesn’t bear any weight on it yet,” he explained, pausing to nod to the strips of soft white fabric that were draped neatly over the arm of the sofa. “Stitches in his shoulder should come out next week. Another week and a half and he might get signed off for short w-a-l-k-s.”

Barnaby’s tail picked up the pace and Zira smiled down at him. “He’s learned to spell then?”

“Yes.” Crowley sighed affectionately. “He’s learned the entire thesaurus entry for that word.”

“You’re a modern miracle, aren’t you?” Zira ruffled Barnaby’s ears with one hand as the dog stared pointedly at the biscuit he was holding. Nodding conspiratorially, Zira accidentally on purpose let the corner of the custard cream to fall out of his grip and into Barnaby’s waiting mouth.

“I’ll pretend I didn’t see that.”

Zira popped the rest of the biscuit into his mouth with a guilty smile, then turned to Crowley. “And how are _you_?”

He shrugged. “Oh, fine. I’m fine. Really.”

There was a second of silence, just time for the lie to hang in the air before Zira brought one hand to rest on Crowley’s thigh. “You don’t have to be fine, not with me.”

“I nearly lost him, Zira.” Crowley leaned his head back against the edge of the sofa, stared up at the ceiling. “And it would have been my fault, my carelessness. What was I thinking, letting him run off like that? Of course this was always going to happen. I just didn’t think, I never thought it would happen to him, to _me_.”

Zira opened his mouth to interject, closed it before he could interrupt. Crowley didn’t need reassurance, not in that moment, what he needed was free rein to feel the guilt, to lean against the wound and let the pain bloom.

“I’m sorry I disappeared, that I didn’t call. I know I’ve pushed everybody away but I didn’t know what to say. What am I supposed to say? This is my fault and everybody’s being so _kind_, so understanding. I don’t deserve that. How could anybody trust me with their dog again after this? I wouldn’t trust me. Look at what I caused, I wouldn’t blame everyone if they… Why are you so _good_ to me?”

He stopped then, shaking his head as his throat thickened. That telltale sign. It was always so close to the surface now. It only took one kind stranger holding the door open for them and he would feel himself begin to well up. _So fragile_, he thought bitterly, _you don’t get to be weak when it’s all your fault._

“People are good to you because you deserve goodness, people are kind to you because you deserve kindness. I’m not going anywhere, Crowley, not unless you ask me to. If you want to sit in silence, that’s fine. If you want me to cook for you, just tell me. Whatever you want. This isn’t your fault, none of it. I’ll tell you today and tomorrow and again and again until you start to believe it.”

Zira felt a little tremor next to him, heard a broken inhale of breath as Crowley brought one hand up to cover his eyes.

“Come here,” Zira murmured, as he wrapped one arm around Crowley’s shoulders and hugged him close. There was resistance, just for a second, and then Zira felt a head come to rest against his neck, felt Crowley’s arm slide around his waist. 

“I never thanked you for paying.” Crowley sniffed, buried his head into that warm nook between Zira’s neck and shoulder, such a perfect fit that it was almost as if it was made just for his cheek to rest against. “I didn’t even bother to thank you, I’m so sorry. You don’t know what that meant to me.”

“I’m glad it helped.” Zira leaned down to rest his cheek against Crowley’s hair, closed his eyes and focused on nothing but the soft caress of Crowley’s breath against his neck.

“The website…let me give you the website, let me pay you back, please.”

“Crowley, I am _not_ letting you do all that work for nothing, you’re not charging me enough as it is.” His words were soft, his fingers stroking a rhythm across Crowley’s forearm. “It wasn’t a loan. It was a gift. If you insist on paying me back then let me store a few more books here, it would be a huge help.”

“I can’t let you pay for this.”

“You told me that like recognises like, that everybody needs a support network, didn’t you?”

“I know, but…”

“You’re always so busy looking out for everybody else, let somebody look out for you for once.”

Crowley looked up at him, brought one hand to his cheek as if there was a chance he might not be real, as if he had to touch him to know for sure. “Where the hell did I find you?”

Zira laughed, leaned down to plant a gentle kiss against his forehead. “I found you, if you recall. Strange day. Stranger night. You don’t know how terrified I was after I sent you that drink. I’ve never done anything quite so reckless in my life.”

“Sending me a drink was the most reckless thing you’ve ever done?” The tiniest laugh, and the nudge of Crowley’s chin against his chest, urging him to carry on.

“Oh, by a long way. Have you seen yourself?” He smiled at the memory of the grip of dread squeezing his chest until he could barely breathe as he watched that ridiculous drink make its way from the bar over to Crowley’s table. “I couldn’t even look at you at first, I thought you’d see me and run a mile.”

“Now why in the world would I do that?” Lightness began to creep into Crowley’s voice. It was the distraction of remembering that night, that hazy night where they had met as strangers and left as two souls forever entangled, something star-crossed, something infinite. They had known it meant _something_ but the weight of it, the places it would take them, everything that it would come to mean, that was a mystery still yet to be unearthed.

Zira thought back to the night he had sat opposite Crowley at the godforsaken speed dating event, how edgy he had felt, how easily Crowley had sprawled across the chair and teased a begrudging compliment out of him. _How is it possible that was only three months ago? Three months and now I have to bite my tongue not to spend every moment telling you just what you mean, just how much you are to me_. “Because you’re _you_…and I’m me.”

“That’s the appeal. Be boring, wouldn’t it, chasing after my own twin?” _Shit. Shit, shit, shit. Well that was all together too much of a confession, wasn’t it? You haven’t even had The Talk, for god’s sake._

The voice in his mind came again, lazier and more long-suffering than ever. _Pretty sure this is The Talk you’re so obsessed with having. _And then, as an afterthought, as if it had spent the last week being all together too kind for a mysterious disembodied voice. _Idiot._

“Chasing after me, are you?” There was a pinprick of goading in Zira’s voice, a little buzz of _go on, indulge me._

“Well, I mean I was, wasn’t I?” Crowley bit his lip, grateful for the angle that meant his expression was safe from the careful scrutiny of Zira’s gaze. The way he looked at him sometimes it was as if he could see beyond his facade, see through right to the heart of him. “How many times did I ask you out before you finally said yes? Every time you told me no I came right back. Like a…little puppy following you around.”

“Oh, don’t say that. That sounds like I didn’t want you to ask me.” _And I did want you to, oh god, did I want you to._ “I was just scared. I’m always bloody scared. Easier to do nothing sometimes, to say no and regret it. Safer.”

“Angel, do you know that’s the first time I’ve ever heard you swear?” Crowley twisted in his lap, held the back of one hand against his mouth to stifle a yawn.

“Swearing is a lazy way to express oneself but sometimes needs must,” Zira said primly, as Crowley fought off another yawn. “You’re exhausted. Why don’t you go and have a nap? I can look after the patient for a while.”

Crowley looked back at him, unsure. He _was_ exhausted, felt as though he could probably count the hours of sleep he’d had since leaving the clinic on two hands. He glanced down at Barnaby’s head nestled happily in Zira’s lap, his tongue lolling on the knee of his trousers, a wet mark spreading across the fabric.

Zira followed his gaze, laughed when he saw the damp stain, patted Barnaby gently behind his ears. "We'll be fine. I’ll wake you if anything changes, I promise. Go and sleep, we’ll be here when you wake up.”

***

“Barnaby,” Crowley said, kneeling down in front of him and speaking with more than a strain of pleading in his voice as he offered the little globe of cheese on the palm of his hand as if it was caviar on a silver platter. “Please eat the cheese.”

Behind him, Zira was carefully concealing the next pill in a fingernail-sized piece of cheddar. Two pills, twice a day. It was simple enough. It _should_ have been simple enough. But Barnaby was bored of being on bedrest and he had to entertain himself however he could.

“We go through this rigmarole every time,” Crowley explained, looking over his shoulder at Zira, who dutifully passed him the second hidden pill. He offered them to Barnaby again, sighing when the dog did nothing but nose them wetly around his palm before tucking his head under Crowley’s arm, as if he had absolutely no intention of eating the lie that was masquerading as a simple dairy-based snack.

It was something that had begun to fill him with anxiety every time it approached, that twice daily stress of trying to get Barnaby to take his medication. _You need it, boy_, he would explain gently, _it will stop you getting sick_. All the emotional persuasion in the world wouldn’t convince Barnaby to take the cheese on the first go. Or the second. Or, usually, the third. When every little detail of his life had become something of a stressful mountain to haul himself to the top of, something as simple as Barnaby refusing to take the pills each morning and night was enough to leave him biting away tears as he paced around the room, pills clutched in his fist, wiling himself to stay calm.

That evening, though, as Zira had bustled about next to him in the kitchen cutting little slices of cheese off of the block before rolling them in his palm to warm them up, he had found traces of humour in the situation. He’d noticed, for the first time, that rebellious spark in Barnaby’s eyes, had begun to see that he wasn’t _afraid_ of taking the pills, he didn’t have any reservation about taking them at all, he just needed a way to amuse himself. _That’s my boy_, he found himself thinking, a world away from that morning’s cry of _please, please just take them._

“Well then,” Crowley said loudly, closing his fingers around the pills as he looked away from Barnaby to direct his speech elsewhere. “I guess Barnaby isn’t hungry for cheese at the…”

He trailed off as a big snout mashed itself against his closed fist and a tongue tried to worm its way between his fingers. He looked down at his dog and found two deep brown eyes staring back before they flicked pointedly towards his hand.

“Oh, somebody got their appetite back, did they?” He opened his hand and breathed a sigh of relief as Barnaby hoovered up the two little treats, swallowing them whole as if they were absolutely nothing at all. _Well, at least that’s over until the morning_.

Pills taken, the next job was to check the cast on his foreleg was nice and clean, that there were no signs of infection around his shoulder and ribs. It was something that filled him with panic every evening, and he found himself going over and over each wound until he was certain there was no new swelling, no fresh sear of heat in the skin, nothing that might signal another panicked visit to the clinic.

Zira settled down on his knees by Barnaby’s side and stroked the dog’s back to help calm him. He was agitated, trying to twist away as Crowley lightly held the back of his hand around the periphery of the wide snarl of broken skin that was crudely knitted back together on the dog’s shoulder, stitches puckering the flesh into deep furrows around the site of the road rash.

“This is the worst part,” Crowley murmured, more to himself than anybody else. “They told me this is most likely to get infected. His leg will be okay, it just needs time. It’s infection that could…make things worse.”

“Crowley,” Zira whispered, reaching out for his shoulder. “Have you been doing all of this on your own, every day? Did you not call anybody at all?”

“It was my fault, I have to take care of him myself.” He barely looked up, just reached for his phone to thumb the torch on and get a closer look at the neat incisions in the shaved stretch of skin around Barnaby’s ribs.

Zira sat back on his heels, fell silent as he watched Crowley run through each one of the checks again, as if he had to make doubly sure everything was okay, that they were still out of the woods for another day. He thought back to the effort it had taken to get Barnaby outside earlier, after Crowley had staggered out of the bedroom, sleepy-eyed and messy-haired after the first proper sleep he’d had in a week.

There’d be a lightness to it, the way they’d come together as a team to help him get down the stairs without needing to bear any weight on his leg, how they’d carried his weight between them with the help of a very ingenious sling the vets had provided him with. But that lightness was borne out of working together, of having each other to lean on, somebody else to laugh with when Barnaby had misjudged his aim and promptly cocked his leg against Crowley’s feet rather than the bush. Nobody could blame him, it _was_ dark out, after all. It must have been that, couldn’t _possibly_ have been canine mischief.

It would have been a different story, though, had Crowley been alone. The stress of trying to get him up and down the stairs without causing any pain, of trying to keep the weight of him upright as he shakily roamed a few pawsteps around the dry patch of grass that served as the only tiny bit of exercise he was permitted to undertake. On top of all that, on top of the stress and the guilt and the pitiless exhaustion, to have to slink back to the flat and scrub urine out of his shoes, his socks, more washing, more germs, more mess. It wouldn’t have seemed as funny as it had when Zira had dissolved into giggles that he’d tried to disguise, badly, as a series of sneezes. It would have seemed like one more thing plucking at his fingertips as he tried desperately to hold everything together.

“You can take care of him. There’s nobody better to take care of him.” Back in the living room, Zira shook away the memory of earlier that evening. He reached up, cupping Crowley’s face in his hand, thumb resting on the persistent dark circle under his eye. “But somebody needs to take care of _you_ if you won’t. Let me get you dinner, anything you want.”

“Sushi,” Crowley said, pausing to give Barnaby a quick kiss on the edge of his snout, satisfied that everything was looking positive. As positive as a broken leg could look, at least.

“You don’t like sushi.”

Crowley laughed as he stood up and headed for the kitchen, carrying an armful of towels to deposit in the washing machine. “It’s growing on me.”

***

The flat was silent when Zira eased the door open, jostling bags of food in each hand as he grappled with the lock until it clicked mercifully closed. It was another little thrill, being trusted to let himself in and out of Crowley’s building, being allowed to fuss over him and do what he could to ease his stress.

Crowley was asleep on the sofa, knees tucked up to his chest with Barnaby dozing against his hip. The dog had lazily opened one eye, wagged his tail a couple of times as he caught sight of Zira, then promptly closed his eyes and settled back to sleep. Zira watched them for a moment, the heavy, sleepy breaths the only sound in the room, and then he slipped quietly into the kitchen and pressed the door closed behind him.

He’d spent rather a lot of time in Crowley’s kitchen over the months, had always found it relaxing to watch him cook, furiously dashing from cupboard to cupboard as he tossed herbs and spices and ingredients Zira had only seen in the _Specialist_ section of Waitrose into pots and pans, stirring and stirring until intoxicating aromas filled that little room and Zira found himself leaning forward, eager for that first taste of whatever he had dreamed up.

That day, though, was the first time Zira had found himself alone in the room, pulling open the fridge and restocking the shelves as if it was second nature, as if he’d known exactly the comforting treats that Crowley would need to soothe his soul with that universal, unspoken love language: food.

He rummaged under the sink and pulled out a tall glass vase, snipped the stems off of the pretty arrangement of pale pink tulips he’d picked up at the shops after hesitating for far too long. _Is it too much, _he wondered, _it’s a bit much isn’t it? No, I’m getting them, to hell with it. _He left the vase on the windowsill above the sink, hoped they might bring a smile to Crowley’s face when he discovered them in the morning. A little lift to start the day with, perhaps.

The washing machine was finished too, another cycle of towels and blankets primed for the next day. Zira bundled them out onto the sideboard, folded the warm rectangles of fabric until they were stacked in a neat pile next to the microwave. He looked around, wondered if there were any other chores he could busy himself with, any other small comforts he could provide. Every surface was spotless, everything in its correct place, Crowley had taken care of it all. _Of course he has, _Zira thought, sighing to himself.

He padded back into the living room, where man and dog were still snoozing on the sofa. He hovered by the door for a moment, glanced down at his shoes, felt something tug at him until he abandoned the idea and hoped he wasn’t outstaying his welcome. _Just a little bit longer_.

Gently, gently, so as not to disturb either of them, he settled down next to Crowley on the corner of the sofa, edging back until he was nestled against the arm. Crowley stirred then, shifted position so he was snuggled against Zira’s chest. The bookseller smiled, wrapped an arm around his shoulder, closed his eyes and let the peaceful mundanity of that moment soak into his soul.

“You came back,” Crowley murmured, words strung together as he opened his eyes a little.

“Of course I did, I’ll always come back for you.” The words were out of Zira’s mouth before he registered them, as if Crowley’s words were a trigger, eliciting a response so deeply held he’d had no choice but to speak it. “Are you hungry?”

“Starving.”

Zira reached out towards the coffee table for the boxes of sushi he’d picked up on the way back from the shops.

“In a minute.” Crowley intercepted his hand, brought it to his lips and kissed each of his knuckles in turn, before sliding two fingers under the collar of Zira’s shirt and pulling him closer. “Let’s just stay here for a while, like this.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Happy Sunday, loves. I hope you've all had a good weekend!
> 
> Next update is coming on Tuesday aaaand it's Christmas in London again...well, Christmas Eve, let's not go too fast or Zira will have a meltdown 😂. I've made a little Christmas playlist that's 50/50 Crowley/Crowley (you know what I mean) so I'll share a link to that when the chapter goes up. 
> 
> If anyone fancies a little sneak peek here are a couple of little teasers about what's coming up in the next week or so:
> 
> Chapter 18: It's Christmaaaas (Eve)  
Chapter 19: New Year's Eve  
Chapter 20: New Year's Eve BUT LATER (hmm, when else did we recently split one night into two chapters? Hmm. I wonder 🤔)
> 
> <3


	18. Winter Nights

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “So,” Crowley said, punctuating the silence as Zira topped up his drink. “Big day tomorrow. What exactly does an enigmatic bookseller get up to on Christmas day?”

**Christmas Eve. Soho, London.**

Barnaby was bored. It had been three and a half weeks since the accident and his twice daily ten minute walks were infuriatingly short. He had begun sulking when, two weeks previously, Crowley had started fastening the cone of shame around his neck before leaving the flat for his dog walking rounds each lunch time. He would return, three hours later, reeking of dogs. _Other_ dogs. Dogs that weren’t him. It was betrayal of the highest order. He had taken to wrestling his lead off of the coat hook and tossing it angrily in Crowley’s direction each afternoon but Crowley was resolute. _No, _he would say, gently but firmly, _be patient, my boy._

The week before Christmas Barnaby’s boredom had reached fever pitch when Crowley had returned from band practice to find the inner cushion of the dog bed shredded into what appeared to be an infinite amount of pieces, strewn across the floor in a fit of rebellious rage. A week later and he was still finding strips of fabric and chunks of foam cushioning in every conceivable corner of the flat, next to the interactive dog toys that Barnaby had turned his nose up at, deeming them patronising.

Then there was the hourly sitting by the front door and whining, the turning of three tight circles that Crowley _knew_ was just a threat, there was no way his bladder had suddenly weakened that much overnight, but even so, he was far too under the thumb to do anything other than bend to Barnaby’s ingenious loophole to wangle more trips to the outside world.

Something had to change.

He couldn’t walk far, not yet, but there was another way he could get some fresh air and see the world pass by. And so, the day after the dog bed incident, Crowley had begun carefully depositing him on the back seat of the car, clicking his harness into place and taking him on slow daily drives, cracking the windows just enough that Barnaby could feel the wind in his fur and sniff at the intoxicating cornucopia of city smells.

Barnaby was no longer bored. He was impatient, yes, keen to get back to his usual routine of careening around with the others and causing havoc, but he was no longer bored. That specific winter evening was particularly exciting, as he was enjoying his very first taxi journey. He was usually relegated to sitting alone on the back seat, Crowley maddeningly out of reach behind the wheel. This time, though, he had the luxury of sprawling across the leather seats and resting his head in his favourite spot on Crowley’s lap.

“Here we go, boy.” Crowley pushed the car door open, turning to unclip Barnaby’s harness from the seatbelt and gently gather the dog in his arms. He’d perfected it over the weeks, the easiest way to pick him up and avoid knocking the cast on his leg, the tender patch on his shoulder that was healing nicely but would still elicit an involuntary flinch on occasion. With Barnaby safe and sound on the pavement, Crowley swung the door closed and raised a hand to the driver. “Thanks, mate, merry Christmas.”

The streets of London were electric, as was customary for Christmas Eve in the city, the scent of spiced cider and candied nuts rife in the air. Throngs of people streamed up and down the pavement beside the two of them, some dressed as Christmas elves, some donning reindeer antler headbands that flashed with LED lights in time with their footsteps as last minute shoppers fought against them, hotfooting it to the nearest department store to throw money at the till and beg underpaid retail staff to help them choose something, _anything_ that would cut it the next morning. That sense of cosy anticipation was prevalent, groups of friends heading out for _one quiet drink_ before they would stagger home to collapse into bed and wait for that day of nostalgia, of traditions and love and far too much food to begin. 

Crowley would usually have been among them, would have flicked his collar up against the cold and ducked into whichever pub the guys had chosen that year, would have stayed for one too many, if only to guarantee a full night’s sleep. That year, though, things were different. Dan had rescinded on their tradition first, had understandably wanted to soak up every moment of his daughter’s first Christmas Eve, and then Barnaby had had his accident and suddenly the idea of spending too long away from him, on Christmas Eve of all nights, left Crowley with a surge of guilt. It was bad enough having to leave him to walk the other dogs but capitalism was a cruel mistress and he’d already lost too much money on the Archangel Solicitors project to take any more time off.

“Let’s go,” Crowley murmured, taking a protective step closer to Barnaby as a tipsy group of revellers dressed as snowmen swerved too close to them. Every pedestrian was a potential threat now, every car a sobering reminder of what might have happened.

When Zira had asked him, shyly, if he might want to pop by the shop on Christmas Eve for mulled wine and mince pies, he’d accepted without a second thought. He knew Barnaby felt right at home in the shop and would likely spend the evening being well and truly spoiled by Zira, who had become a fast ally in ensuring he always, without question, got his own way. The bookseller had been visiting the flat a couple of times a week, would arrive laden with shopping bags and force tea and toast and naps onto Crowley until, slowly, the bags under his eyes began to fade away and he began to come back to himself. They were through the worst of it, mercifully. The nightmare was over. Now it was a routine, something stressful but manageable, a problem halved.

“Oh, almost forgot.” Pausing outside of Z. Fell and Co., Crowley pulled a small velvet Santa hat out of his bag and eased it over Barnaby’s ears, soft elastic holding it in place under his chin. Barnaby looked at him, barely enduring the humiliation but assuming it served a higher purpose, something related to his human’s human with the biscuits and the soothing voice.

***

“Look at you!” Zira cooed, crouching down to take Barnaby’s face in his hands and beam at him. “So festive. And aren’t you walking wonderfully?”

As if demonstrating his wonderful walking abilities, Barnaby paced forward from the inlaid doormat onto the floorboards of the shop that had never, not since Zira had acquired the place, looked quite so clean.

“And you,” Zira smiled fondly, gripped Crowley’s red tartan scarf between two fingers as he tugged at it, laughing. “I wholeheartedly approve of this.”

“Mmm, thought you might.” He grinned, unwinding it from his neck and hanging it on the coat stand as he followed Zira through into the back room. “Sorry I’ve been a bit distant this week. Finally got that bloody solicitor website online, had to pull an all-nighter on Tuesday. They wanted to change the API _again_ the day before we went live.”

Zira groaned sympathetically, as if he had any idea what an API was, then slid the jacket from Crowley’s shoulders and hung it next to his own. “I think you’ve had rather a lot to worry about, my dear. Can you take any time off or are you back to work straight after Christmas?”

“Well, I’ve got quite the exciting project on the go that officially has all of my attention now.” Crowley sank back into one of the armchairs that had been dragged closer to the fireplace, in which a toasty fire was slowly crackling to life. “I reckon we’ll be good to go as planned, angel.”

“Really?” Zira sat down in the chair next to him, wide smile lifting his cheeks.

“I told you I’d get it done by the end of the year, didn’t I? Might literally take until the eleventh hour but you’ll be starting next year with one more string in your bow, I promise.”

“Oh, Crowley, thank you. Please don’t work yourself too hard, though, not on my account. I can wait, you know that.” Zira reached out for his hand, found Crowley meeting him halfway.

“I thought, maybe if you don’t already have plans…” Crowley trailed off, steeled himself for a moment and then continued. “I thought we could do it together. Set the website live, I mean. New Year’s Eve, seems like as good a time as any.”

“I can’t think of a better way to ring in the new year.”

They sat in companionable silence, hands interlocked in the gap between their chairs, watching as the fire flickered to life in front of them, warming them through and filling the air with the smell of woodsmoke and heat.

“Drinks,” Zira said eventually, pulling himself out of his chair and shaking his head a little to diffuse the drowsy haze that always seemed inevitable when relaxing in front of a fire. “Mulled wine?”

“Of course.” Crowley reached down to scratch Barnaby under the chin and the big dog yawned contentedly before settling down on the tartan blanket that had been laid down in front of the fireplace. He reached out to nose far enough inside Crowley’s bag that he could pull out the panda toy Zira had given him. It had become a firm favourite and, on Crowley’s most emotional days, the sight of him curled up with it resting under his chin was enough to see him wipe away a stray tear. “’Tis the season and all that.”

“Hmm.” Zira glanced out of the window, where the pavements were looking resolutely devoid of snow. “Shame it isn’t going to be a white Christmas this year.”

“A snowy Christmas in London?” Crowley scoffed. “That’d be a miracle.”

As Zira busied himself upstairs with preparing his very secret mulled wine recipe, which involved opening a bottle of pre-mulled wine and heating it in a saucepan with a cinnamon stick thrown in for authenticity purposes, Crowley and Barnaby stretched out their legs in tandem and sighed contentedly.

The flat had always felt like a safe haven, a little nest of his own creation that he had built through sheer hard work and determination to succeed in a city that seemed to want nothing more than for every young upstart to fail. In the weeks since the accident though, it had lost something of the sheen it used to have. The three twisting flights of stairs that led up to his flat were no longer a way for him to burn off that last bit of energy by taking them two at a time as quickly as he could, challenging himself to take each flight faster than the last, instead they were a hazard, just another obstacle making his new normal even harder. The zig-zagging stretches of parquet flooring that ran along the corridor outside his flat had used to fill him with quiet glee; that beautiful cherry wood had been a little sign of success, _look at what you’ve achieved, living in a place with fancy floors._ Now they were an annoyance, magnifying every footstep, disturbing him from what little sleep he had managed to indulge in when Zira wasn’t around to hold down the fort and order him into the bedroom. It would come back, he knew, that feeling of home but, like everything at the moment, he needed to give it time. Patience, that was the key.

The bookshop, though, held none of the stress that his own home did. It was still, in its hectic, dishevelled way, a slice of peace amongst the chaos. A hearty fire, a comfortable armchair that had all but conformed to the curves of his body over the months, a warm blanket and the calming presence of stacks and stacks of books, infinite stories stretching out around him like a cave of secrets. Of course this was the life that had attracted Zira, the ability to leap into a thousand worlds without ever having to leave the safe shell of his home.

“Mind, it’s hot.” Zira bustled up next to him, laying a tray down on the table that was nestled between their two chairs. On top of it were two glasses of mulled wine, as well as a thick glass pitcher filled with the rest of the bottle, a plate that displayed a neat arrangement of mince pies and, of course, a little plate of Barnaby’s favourite treats.

It was another pivotal moment that had cemented itself in Crowley’s mind, that day back before the accident when he and Barnaby had visited the shop for a quick chat, only for Zira to emerge from the kitchen with a handful of dog treats that he’d begun to keep in the cupboard, just in case they ever popped over.

He looked across at Zira as the bookseller settled back into his chair and offered a treat to Barnaby, who swallowed it whole and looked expectantly back at the plate for his second course. _You’re perfect_, he thought, the realisation striking him hard, as if it was unbelievable it had only just occurred to him,_ you are so perfect it’s as if I dreamed you into existence_.

“Are you all right?” Zira asked, and Crowley started, realising he’d missed whatever it was Zira had been saying to him.

“Yes, yes I’m fine.” He smiled, knowing that it was true, he was completely fine for the first time all month. “This is good, by the way. Really good.”

“Ah.” Zira tapped the side of his nose and narrowed his eyes. “Secret recipe.”

“Full of secrets, aren’t you? Always keeping me on my toes, my mystery man.”

Zira beamed back, as if that was the first time anyone had ever referred to him as a _mystery man_.

“So,” Crowley said, punctuating the silence as Zira topped up his drink. “Big day tomorrow. What exactly does an enigmatic bookseller get up to on Christmas day?”

“I’m passed from one family to another, depending on the year.” He laughed, took another sip of wine, a little swell of heat blooming in his cheeks. “Raphael and Luci this time.”

“The Shadwells had their turn last year?” Crowley swung his legs over the arm of the chair, leaning back until he was almost horizontal against the soft, worn fabric. He slipped into the imagined scene, Zira sitting at the Shadwells’ dining room table, paper hat wonkily perched on top of his hair as the dogs barked underneath the table, Tracy brought out course after course of perfectly cooked food, and Shadwell forgot to pretend he thoroughly disapproved of such frivolity. It was peaceful, that evocation, made him wonder if he might ever get the chance to witness it. Another year, perhaps.

Zira was lost to his own memory for a moment, teeth sinking absent-mindedly into his lip as he bit back a mischievous smile. “Yes, think they’ll be quite glad it’s Raphael’s turn this year. I offered to make dessert last year. Not sure why. Should have just bought it. Rather overdid things with the rum cake. We were all flat out asleep all afternoon and hungover by tea time. Missed The Snowman and everything.”

“Not The Snowman!” Crowley cried, bringing both hands up to his face in mock-anguish. “Christmas with Raphael and Luci, I imagine that’s a little…avant-garde.”

“Oh, yes, it’s all experimental decorations and a pre-prepped Fortnum and Masons feast. Far too much sherry, Luci whipping out a canvas to paint a still life of the leftovers if we don’t keep them occupied. Falling asleep on the sofa in front of something black and white and subtitled, waking up to find those two dancing by the moonlight like the romantic cliche they are. It’s not the norm, but it’s wonderful.”

“There’s something about those traditions, isn’t there?” Crowley thought of his own traditions, those little things that wouldn’t hold a sense of importance to anybody else: starting the day by mainlining After Eights in bed while he stuck the TV on and complained to Barnaby about the desecration that was MTV’s _30 Greatest Christmas Songs of All Time_ ranking. _Every year. Driving Home for Christmas never gets a bloody look in. Number six, really?_

“It’s something of a send off actually,” Zira continued, “they’re moving out just after new year, having the whole penthouse renovated. You should see the plans, it'll be quite something when it’s finished. There'll be a hell of a housewarming when they move back in. You should come.”

“Sounds unmissable.” Crowley laughed, when all he really wanted to do was shout _do your terrifying yet lovely friends really like me? Please say they do. Please say they approve of me._

“What about you? Where do you spend Christmas?” _Don’t say alone, please don’t say alone. It would break my heart. You can join me, any year, wherever I am. You know that, don’t you?_

“I’ll be with Mick, and whoever else he ends up taking under his wing that day. He cooks the best roast dinner in the East End so there’s usually a few of us queuing up for him to take pity on us. Can’t do my jeans up for days afterwards. Mick’s roasts are to Christmas what Lily’s parties are to Halloween. The potatoes, angel, you should try the _potatoes_. One year, promise me.” _Might have been a bit forward, that. _“I’m not saying…I’m not saying you have to spend Christmas with me. Just…the potatoes.”

Emboldened by the wine, the cosy domesticity of the evening, the closeness they had felt in the weeks since Barnaby’s accident, Zira realised that the idea of spending Christmas with Crowley sounded very much like something to look forward to instead of something to fear. “How about if you’re not sick of me by next Christmas, deal?”

“Deal.” Crowley smiled, opened his mouth to say more but fell silent when Zira reached across to tug open the drawer of the side table and pull out a thick cream envelope.

“This is for you,” he said, and suddenly the bravado of the moment had passed and he felt nerves creeping back in. Making plans for next year, that faraway time that was a flicker on the horizon, that was easy enough, but this was something for now, something he was about to receive immediate, unmasked feedback on.

“Angel…” Crowley trailed off, taking the envelope and sliding one finger underneath the fold to ease it open. It was thick, the paper, buttery and soft. This wasn’t your run of the mill offering from Clintons, but then Zira wasn’t your run of the mill man, as he well knew. “You didn’t need to do this. You’ve already done more than I can ever repay you for.”

“I thought you were going to be hard to buy for until I realised you’d already told me what you wanted, perhaps without realising, that night you rescued me from the flood. I might not be able to give you the stars and I hope you never see the world burn but I thought I could make one of your dreams come true, at least. Well, sort of. I’m sorry I couldn’t go the whole hog.”

**First Stop Supercars**

_Prestige, Vintage, and Supercar Hire_

** This gift certificate entitles the recipient to a one week hire period of a 1933 Bentley ‘Silent Sports Car’. Please contact the team at First Stop Supercars to book your Bentley experience! **

**To**: London’s best web designer and dog walker extraordinaire

**From**: Your favourite bookseller

**Gift Message:** Happy Christmas, Crowley. Have fun, don’t go too fast x

“Oh my god…You didn’t. You _didn’t_.” He stared from the gift certificate to Zira, then back to the certificate to read it again and make sure he hadn’t hallucinated the whole thing. He jumped up from his armchair, waving the certificate in one hand as he burst into giddy laughter and flung his arms around Zira’s neck, clambering onto the edge of the bookseller’s chair, despite the fact it was very much not designed for two adults. “I can’t believe you did this!”

“I’m glad you like it.” Zira smiled shyly. “Something fun, something frivolous after the time you’ve had. I thought…perhaps you could take me out for a spin, put the fear of god into me again.”

“Of course I will, anywhere you want to go.” Crowley read the certificate for the third time, dissolved back into laughter at the sheer thought of finally getting behind the wheel of the car of his dreams. “This is brilliant, angel, thank you.”

Inside his mind, there was only the sound of distant wailing. Whether it was ecstatic or furious, he couldn’t quite tell. He didn’t dwell on it, not that night, had realised dwelling on what in the world that voice might mean led to questions he didn’t currently have the wherewithal to answer. Besides, there were far more terrifying matters at hand.

“I got you something too.” Crowley leaned back, one hand holding onto Zira’s shoulder for balance, and rifled through his bag. Zira took the opportunity to stare very observantly at the way his jumper rode up just enough to give him a sneak peek.

_Jolly good, that’s more like it_, came the eager voice in his head.

_Not now_. Zira shook it away and it reluctantly obeyed, leaving a whisper of resentment in its wake.

“You’re an incredibly hard man to buy a present for, do you know that?” Crowley pulled himself back up and passed Zira a neatly wrapped gift in a very familiar shape. A shape, in fact, that he spent every day of his life looking at. As he gently tore off the wrapping paper, Crowley rested his chin on one palm and tucked his feet underneath Zira’s thighs, perched on the arm of the chair, watching over him, already regretting the ridiculous gift.

_He’ll like it. Don’t make me say it’s nice. You know how I feel about that word._

_Thanks for the confidence but this was a terrible idea. You should have talked me out of it._

As the wrapping paper fell away, Zira stared down at the book in his hands. It was a little battered, worn around the edges as if it had been carried around in a bag, taken from place to place as a constant companion. It was a slim black hardback, cover and spine devoid of any grand title, any author attribution. There was no deckled texture to the pages, no sprayed edges. It was, for all intents and purposes, a blank canvas.

“Thought maybe you didn’t have enough to read.” Crowley laughed weakly, anything to break the silence.

Zira slipped a finger inside the cover and slowly opened it, expecting a title, a copyright, anything. There was nothing, only a blank page. On the second page, though, he found something handwritten. A poem, four verses he was very familiar with. And on the next page, a quote that he had heard many times over the years. On the next, a series of song lyrics, something he recognised from the night he had watched Crowley’s band. As he flicked through he discovered a world of words; poetry, lyrics, snippets from books, sometimes just a few short original sentences etched across the page in that angular, scratchy handwriting. There were notes too, next to the poems, the lyrics, little observations and details, thoughts about what it all might mean, what it all stood for underneath the clever wordplay and metaphor.

It was a heartbeat, this book, a map. The imprint of a soul that he realised he had only just begun to scratch the surface of. It was all here, everything that made Crowley feel anything at all. All the love and grief and darkness that the written word had conjured up in him and he had shared it, he had _wanted_ to share it, to give it to him, to give him that piece of himself.

“Crowley…” The word hung in the air as Zira swallowed a lump in his throat, reached up to rest a hand on Crowley’s knee. “This is…I don’t know what to say…Thank you.”

“Been filling it up for years, whenever anything resonated,” he murmured, watching the way Zira’s eyes roamed over the pages, felt at once completely exposed but also safe, relieved, as if he’d finally done something brave, something honest. _This is me, angel, this is everything I am. The good, the bad, the too much, the not enough. It’s not easy to find the words. Sometimes other people say it better than I can._

A little whine filtered up from the blanket in front of the fire and Crowley climbed down from the arm of Zira’s chair to lean down next to Barnaby. “What’s up, boy? Quick trip to the outdoors?”

He clipped Barnaby’s lead on, helped him get to his feet, and then swept a hand across Zira’s shoulder as he walked past. The bookseller looked up, startled for a moment as if he’d forgotten they were there, had had his head buried in the book Crowley had given him. “I won’t be a minute. Nature calls.”

***

“Will you read to me, angel?” Crowley asked, leaning back as he drained his third glass of mulled wine. Between them, the pitcher of wine was as empty as their glasses, as barren as the plate that had previously housed an entire box of mince pies.

Zira looked across at him, exhaled a laugh, then turned his attention back to the book, losing himself in the words, finding little glimpses of Crowley in every line, every phrase.

“I’m serious.” Crowley batted at his arm, hung his head back over the arm of the chair and gazed up at Zira, feeling the pleasant swirl of warm alcohol spreading through his body. “I can’t remember the last time somebody read to me.”

“Any requests?” Zira asked, tucking his knees up to his chest and reaching out to stroke through the length of Crowley’s hair, silken fire between his fingers.

The dog walker paused in thought for a moment. “Something that speaks to you.”

_All of it_, Zira thought, as he thumbed through the pages, felt his heart clench as specific lines jumped out at him. That longing, that searching for somewhere, for a home, it radiated out like a wave. It was something raw, something unflinchingly honest, something braver than he could ever hope to do. As gifts went, it was the single most touching thing anybody had ever given him: unrestricted access to the parts of themselves they kept most deeply hidden. _It all speaks to me, my love, every word._

He found it then, the poem he was looking for, the one that had struck him from the first line. He had read it before, many times, but that night it had taken on a new meaning, something infinitely deeper and more personal. _This is us_, he thought, _this is everything we are._

“I shut my eyes and all the world drops dead; I lift my lids and all is born again. I think I made you up inside my head.”

Crowley closed his eyes, let the velvet softness of Zira’s sweet voice settle down on top of him like a cherished blanket as the bookseller’s hands swept back and forth through his hair. _Paradise. This is paradise. This place, these words, this man._

“I dreamed that you bewitched me into bed, and sung me moon-struck, kissed me quite insane. I think I made you up inside my head.”

As Zira read the final lines a moment later, the only sounds left in the room were the background crack and pop of the logs burning in the fireplace, the little snores coming from Barnaby’s snout as he curled up around his beloved panda in a deep sleep. Crowley reached back and wrapped his fingers around Zira’s wrist, stretching up as Zira leaned down to kiss him. He twisted then, uprighted himself and slid one hand around the back of the bookseller’s head to pull him close, to kiss him again, slowly, while all the weight of the words Zira had read aloud still breathed magic into the air.

From the clock above the fireplace came twelve deep, ringing chimes. A new day.

“Merry Christmas, Crowley.” Zira broke away from him, just enough to breathe the words against his lips.

“Merry Christmas, angel.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Well HELLO angels and demons! I hope your week is going well so far, what have you all been up to?
> 
> Christmas has arrived in Soho! But we're skipping ahead right to New Year's Eve for the next two chapters:
> 
> Chapter 19 - Friday 27th  
Chapter 20 - Sunday 29th
> 
> Christmas playlist ahoy for those who care to indulge far too early in the year - https://open.spotify.com/playlist/2IMk8a5vV0cmq0aym0nam8. It's pretty much a 50/50 split in my head between Crowley/Crowley - I'll leave you to decide which songs belong on whose playlist :). Oh, and it gets a bit angsty at the end if you think about Crowley and Aziraphale for too long, which I hope you DO because we love that sweet angst <3. 
> 
> Little bit of a longer gap between this and the next chapter because I'm London-bound later this week to go for tea at the Ritz (#ineffableafternoontea) and see Hamilton...for the third time :D.
> 
> In case anyone was wondering I will be being super extra and putting together the book of assorted life/love poems/quotes/lyrics/book extracts/assorted bumf that Crowley gave to Zira in this chapter. I can post it as a short story when I'm done if anyone would like. And the poem Zira reads an extract of in this chapter is Sylvia Plath's Mad Girl's Love Song and, yes, I'm cliche enough to have a framed print of it on the wall of my office because it's bloody glorious 😂.
> 
> OH and please visit the comments to enjoy an insight into my brain while writing SEXY TIMES scenes through the enduring medium of Drag Race and other assorted gifs. I know nobody asked for it but, well, enjoy.
> 
> My oh my, I had so much to say in this note!
> 
> P.S. I've got a couple of festive short stories in the works about both sets of boys that I'll be publishing in the lead up to Christmas this year - if anyone has any festive-related things you'd like to see me include pleeease give me a shout as I'm still in the planning stages and I'd love to include anything you guys want to request <3


	19. Just Say Yes

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “Patience is a virtue, Crowley. We need champagne,” Zira hissed, handing him the second glass as he steadied the champagne bottle between his knees and tugged the wire cage free from the cork.

**New Year’s Eve. Z. Fell and Co., Soho.**

“You’ve got to stop bringing me flowers, I’ll start to get the wrong idea.” _I already have the wrong idea and it might just be the best damned idea I’ve ever had._

As Crowley stood on the doorstep of the bookshop, leather-jacketed and messy-haired, with a bouquet of fiery orange roses in one hand and Barnaby’s lead in the other, it took rather a lot of self-control for Zira not to tug him inside the shop, draw the blinds and get to work on exploring that wrong idea he’d mentioned. As it was, he had boundless reserves of self-control so managed to restrain himself, just, and usher the two of them into the shop.

Left free to roam about the place, Barnaby promptly took himself off to a nearby stack of books to give them a good, hearty sniff before deciding that, yes, these were the same books that had been there when he’d visited the week before, so there was nothing further to report. Satisfied that nothing too dramatic had happened since his last visit, he limped off into the back room and curled up in front of the fire, leaving his human and his human’s human to their usual routine of lingering looks when they thought the other wasn’t watching.

“I’ll stop bringing you flowers when you stop making comments like that.” Crowley raised an eyebrow, passing the flowers to Zira as they made their way through into the back room. He froze in the doorway, taking a slow step forward as he coughed out a little laugh of disbelief.

Gold iridescent _Happy New Year!_ banners were strewn from bookshelf to bookshelf, tacked above strings of Christmas lights that flickered on and off with a warm, golden glow. The table between their two armchairs was heaving with food; little bowls of crisps and a spread of dips, finger sandwiches that were cut too haphazardly for anybody other than Zira to have had anything to do with their assembly, a cheeseboard that was larger and more intricate than any cheeseboard had a right to be was at the centre of it all, and a spread of biscuits vast enough for an entire party of New Year’s Eve revellers was perched precariously on the edge. A champagne bucket and two glasses sat temptingly on the desk behind them, while Zira’s antique globe bar had been rolled out and opened up next to his arm chair. Music played softly in the background and Zira stood there, fiddling with his hands, waiting for Crowley’s approval.

_He didn’t even decorate for Christmas, _Crowley thought, as he stepped forward and ran a finger across a foil banner. _He said it was a waste of time when he wasn’t even spending the day here._

“I, er, thought you might be missing out on a party to be here with me, so I thought I’d bring a party to you, even if it’s just the two of us.” He glanced down at Barnaby. “Sorry, the three of us.”

“Angel, this is…this is brilliant.” He turned back to Zira, felt affection and gratitude and something that felt like anticipation course through him like a shot of adrenaline. “This is better than any party I could have gone to, trust me. It’s a special occasion in the Den if they wipe last night’s condensation off the walls before they open.”

When Mick had asked him on Christmas Day if they’d be seeing him at the Devil’s Den ‘New Year’s Cleave’ party that year he’d expected light mocking, as had become tradition whenever any of the guys got wind he had a date with Zira. What he had got, though, was Mick and Sammy exchanging a knowing smile across the kitchen table which was, somehow, even more frustrating.

“Well, I'm glad you like it. Thought perhaps we’d better hold off on the champagne until after the work was done.” Zira smiled, relieved, and brought the flowers to his nose to give them a sniff. “These are lovely, what are they for anyway?”

_Because you’re you. Because they say the things I’m too scared to say. Because the way your eyes light up when I surprise you keeps me up at night._ “Website going live and that, seemed appropriate.”

_It’s called fishing for compliments. How can somebody as apparently perceptive as you be so stupid? _The voice was accompanied with a laboured sigh, as if stupidity of Crowley's level could barely be fathomed.

_Oh, it’s that time of the evening, is it? Thought you’d been quiet for a while._

_Thought I’d give you Christmas off. Slept through it anyway. Not the easiest time of year to…_

_Didn’t ask for your life story, mate. I hear enough of it as it is._

_You are such a little shit._

***

“Ten…Nine…”

“Wait, wait, wait!” Zira wailed, throwing himself out of his armchair and rushing to the champagne bucket as if he’d forgotten the most important component of the evening. “Stop the countdown! Don’t let it happen yet!”

“All right.” Crowley pushed his laptop down from his thighs to his knees, watching Zira as he hastily returned to his chair, two champagne glasses in one hand, ice bucket clasped under the other arm.

“How many seconds do we have?” Zira looked at him in desperation, frantically unwinding the wire cage from the top of the champagne bottle.

“…As many as we want. I’ll just…I’ll just start counting down from ten again. I have to manually set it live, it doesn’t just miraculously know to spring to life when we get to zero.” Crowley bit back a laugh, had to remind himself that, one, Zira’s knowledge of technology was basic enough that he really might believe a verbal countdown was the signal a website needed to bloom into existence in the ether of the internet, and, two, the bookseller did not take kindly to being mocked about knowledge that eluded him. He had the tendency to purse his lips, release a snippy reply into the air and settle into a sulk that would last for as long as it took for his resolve to weaken, which was usually around the time of Crowley’s next smile.

“Yes, well, one can never trust technology.” The bookseller pursed his lips, right on cue. “Always listening to us, that’s what I read.”

“I hear one day they’re going to gain sentience and overthrow us all.” Crowley nodded wisely, took one of the empty glasses from where it was tucked between Zira’s knees. “Have you been kind to your alarm clock, angel? It’ll come for you first when the uprising begins.”

“Thank you, Crowley, that’s quite sufficient.” Zira huffed a sigh of mild annoyance, then swallowed a little smile when Crowley turned his attention back to the laptop.

It was all ready, every piece of work that had come together to form Zira’s exciting new foray into the twenty first century. The website, the extensive cataloguing system Crowley had developed near enough from scratch, the sales integration that meant he would no longer have to rely on that grubby little cash book he lost at least once a week, it was all ready to become _real_ at the press of a single button.

Crowley hovered his finger over the trackpad, wiggled it impatiently. “Say when.”

“Patience is a virtue, Crowley. We need champagne,” Zira hissed, handing him the second glass as he steadied the champagne bottle between his knees and tugged the wire cage free from the cork. He clapped a hand over the cork and wriggled it to and fro for a moment, though it turned out the extra encouragement was definitely not required. The cork burst free and a little fountain of white forth rose up from the thick neck of the bottle, dripping down across Zira’s hand, which was gripped around it. He tutted, bringing his hand to his mouth and running his tongue absent-mindedly along the length of his thumb to lick away the liquid.

_I would move mountains to be that thumb, _thought Crowley.

_I would destroy worlds to be that thumb. Literally._

_Yes, okay, very dramatic. It’s not a competition._

_You have no idea._

“Glass, dear.” Zira tapped him on the knee and Crowley snapped to attention, banishing the voice until it slunk away with a hiss of frustration.

_This is it_, Crowley sighed, as he held a glass of gently fizzing champagne in one hand and raised the index finger of his other over the trackpad of his laptop. _Four months of work. God, I hope you like it. _“Ready?”

“Ready.” Zira smiled, leaned over to bridge the gap between their two chairs, knees tucked up to his chest, champagne held aloft in anticipation. All of that _technology_ was about to become his. A whole new world, a whole new way of doing business, of living his life, and here was the man who had made it happen. He looked across at Crowley, at the lick of hair that curled around the tip of his ear, the way one tooth was gently indenting his lip as he leaned over his laptop, the way the cuff of his ribbed jumper fell just a half inch too long, sweeping down to the knuckle of his thumb, the way his thighs…

“And you’re live!” Crowley turned to him and pointed excitedly at the screen where the shiny new digital home of Z. Fell and Co. was alive and kicking, carefully pulled into existence from Crowley’s creative mind. “Welcome to the future, angel.”

“Look at it,” Zira cooed, leaning so close to the screen Crowley was sure he was about to chuck his own website header under its metaphorical chin. “It’s beautiful. It’s the most beautiful website I’ve ever seen.”

_Is that still a compliment if he’s only seen enough websites to count on one hand?_ Crowley smiled to himself, raised his glass to clink it against Zira’s. A high ring spiralled out, just as Zira smiled fondly across at him.

“So, er, how do I use it?” Zira peered enthusiastically at the screen, fingers of one hand flexing as if he was ready to get to business right away.

“Let’s…save that for another day.” Crowley closed the lid of the laptop, sliding it back into its case and tucking it down the side of his chair. Teaching Zira how to add attachments to e-mails had been strenuous enough; he had a lot of sleep to catch up on before he was ready to endure the role of Zira’s chief support technician.

Then came the sound of Crowley’s phone vibrating on the table between them. _Video Call: Lily. _He curled one hand around it, laughing. “They’ll be at the Den. Ready for the drunken ramblings of half of London’s twenty third most popular cover band?”

“Always.” Zira sat back, took a sip of champagne as he watched Crowley’s finger slide across the screen to accept the call.

“Little Brother!” Lily’s face juddered to life on the screen, mouth open as the weak signal in the Devil’s Den struggled to cope with the pressure of delivering her plaintive bleating. “We miss your face! Why aren’t you here?”

“I’m working, Lil, I told you. Last project of the year.” Crowley laughed, waved a hand as Sammy bobbed into view and brandished a half empty plastic cup in lieu of a verbal greeting.

“Oh, of course, how could I forget? Happy National Shag-a-Bookseller day! You’re cutting it fine, aren’t you?”

“That is _NOT_...you know that’s not...” He trailed off, turned to Zira, frantic. “That is _not _what I told them.”

A slow smile wound its way up from Zira’s lips to his eyes, eyebrow quirking mischievously. _Forgone conclusion? _he mouthed, and somehow, though it defied the boundaries of science, Crowley’s jeans grew a little, and then a lot, tighter.

“Zira!” They wailed in tandem, heads pressed together as if getting closer to the screen would somehow allow them access to Crowley’s periphery. “We miss you.”

“Bring him!” Lily continued, as Sammy disappeared from the screen. “Hubbies’ night out!”

“_Stop _calling us that,” Crowley hissed, cringing as he felt Zira’s eyes boring a hole in the side of his skull.

“Are you coming for brunch tomorrow?” Sammy yelled over the music, popping back into the frame so only the top half of his face was showing. Unfortunately for Crowley, though his mouth wasn’t visible, his voice travelled an alarming distance. “Or will you be balls-deep in bookseller?”

In that moment, as every ounce of blood felt as though it drained from Crowley’s body, everything around him descended into chaos. Lily shrieked with laughter, Zira promptly lost his composure and snorted into his champagne glass, and Barnaby began barking for no other reason than he felt left out. Meanwhile, Crowley closed his eyes and prayed for a supernatural phenomenon to purge everybody’s memory, including his own.

_Not a chance, mate._

“I’m going to go and salvage my dignity now,” he whispered, utterly defeated, making a mental note to start dreaming up adequate humiliations to get sweet revenge when Sammy least expected it. He glanced across at Zira, staring at his lips if only to avoid eye contact, and mouthed _do you want to come to brunch?_ “Yes, we'll be there tomorrow. Yes, both of us, stop screaming. Happy new year. I hate you, love you, bye.”

“Bye Zira! Bye Little Brother! We looooove y-”

The line went dead.

“I…” After a moment of silence Crowley attempted to speak. No. He wasn’t ready. He might never be ready again. All he was ready for was giving Sammy the death stare to end all death stares, which he was saving for brunch the next morning.

“Well, they seem like they’re having a rather pleasant night, aren't they?” Zira patted him on the thigh and took another sip of champagne. “Thank you for inviting me for brunch. I’m not sure I’ve ever _been_ for brunch on New Year’s Day. Usually asleep on Raphael’s sofa for most of the day, if I’m honest. Now, where were we? Ah. The website!”

_Thank you, you sweet angel, for pretending you didn’t hear that. Or…did you hear it and recoil in horror at the thought and now you’re just trying to spare my feelings ahead of the inevitable brush-off? Ohgodohgod…_

_Will you calm down, for Somebody’s sake? You’re exhausting, do you know that? You. Are. Exhausting. No wonder you’re so tired all the time._

_I'm tired all the time because a disembodied voice keeps waking me up in the middle of the night sniffling about missing his…_

_Don’t know what you’re talking about._

_Ohhh, angel, I miss you. Paradise. 6000 years. I’ll wait for you, as long as it takes. I love you so…_

_Oh, you think it’s a one way street, sunshine? Ohhh, Zira, please kiss me again. Oh, Zira, do you know how much I want you? I bet you taste like…_

_Well, this has been suitably awkward. Time for one of your naps?_

_Fine. And stop eavesdropping. It’s private._

“Thank you, Crowley, for doing this for me.”

Zira’s voice cut through Crowley’s inner argument that was nothing if not bracing, and becoming too regular an occurrence. He really needed to do something about it. Another day, perhaps. how would he even begin to start explaining it? _So, I, er, felt a bit weird one day and ever since there’s been a voice in my mind that alternates between slagging me off, growling about everything, crying over an unidentified long lost love, and being surprisingly tender when I’m feeling particularly delicate. Any idea what might be happening? No, okay I’ll keep an eye on it and come back in five to six months if it isn’t any better, thank you for your time._

“It was my pleasure, angel. I, er, I’m glad…that Tracy recommended me, that you decided to give me a chance. I know I wasn’t exactly professional the first time I came over.”

Zira thought back to that first business meeting, if it could be called that, where he’d stood in his pyjamas with a book as a weapon and Crowley had sauntered around the shop as if he owned the place, voice dripping with that irresistible sarcasm. How far they’d come since then, since those early days of circling each other at a polite distance, flirtations risked once an evening, if that. Now it was all…confusing intimacy undercut with the distinct lack of either of them knowing what it meant, what it was, where it was going. _Somewhere_, he thought,_ it has to be going somewhere._

_Of course it’s going somewhere. Or it will be, if you get on with it. For heaven’s sake, what are you waiting for? _That voice. That voice he had been doing his best to ignore for so many weeks was starting to get all too comfortable says its piece. It seemed to have something to say about everything and it was always, almost without exception, wearily critical of whatever it was Zira was worrying about. As far as sentient consciences went, it was unerringly snippy.

_I’m not doing this. I’m not listening to you._

_You’re only shutting me out because you know I’m right and that is very juvenile behaviour, young man. Perhaps if you listened to me you wouldn’t have to spend every night taking matters into your own hands, because there might be somebody there to lighten the load for you._

_We are not having this conversation. Not another word._

_I’m just letting you know there’s another option and he’s sitting right next to you, my dear boy, just think about it._

_I thought my thinking about it was precisely the problem?_

_Well, do something about it then. It’s almost a new year, Zira, do you want to be in the same position next year? Everything you want is right there in front of you. You know what you want, stop running from it. You don’t need to be afraid. Not of him._

“Imagine if I hadn’t called you. Imagine if I’d chickened out of calling you like I almost did.” Zira met his eyes, smiled shyly. _Perhaps_, he thought, _there is something to be said for bravery. It led me to you, at least._ “What happens now then, now that that website’s finished?”

“Well, we’re no longer business associates.” Crowley extended a hand, fingers pointing neatly towards Zira’s chest.

Zira shook it smoothly, nodding earnestly. “It was nice knowing you.”

Crowley laughed first, Zira joining him a heartbeat later as Crowley twisted his hand until their fingers were entwined. Better. Zira leaned forward, resting his forehead against Crowley’s, felt the dog walker’s hair underneath his skin. Perfect.

Gentle strings overlaid with a sweet, tentative piano melody flared to life as the next song on Zira’s painstakingly laboured over New Year’s Eve playlist filled the room. It was curious, Zira had always thought, how quickly music could shift a mood. Whether it was a long-forgotten memory called back into remembrance, heartbreak or grief or crippling loneliness called into being in a public place, leaving you biting your lip and rushing away before the words could hit too close to home, or as the case was on that night, in that moment, lyrics that said everything you were too afraid to say, the words unsaid brought to life through somebody else’s voice.

“Dance with me,” Zira murmured, standing up and taking a pace towards Crowley before he lost his nerve. _Please say yes. Please don’t leave me standing here, hopeful, like a fool._

“I can’t dance sober.” Even so, he pushed himself up from his chair and followed Zira into that little space by the window that wasn’t cluttered with books. The perfect dance floor, just the right size for two.

“You can with me.”

And, as it turned out, he could.

_This isn’t by chance. Do you feel this, angel? Do you see how perfectly we fit together? Two halves of a whole. Your head was made to rest against my chest, your hand was meant to fit in mine. This is bigger than us, it has to be, it has to mean something more than the two of us dancing here like two cowards too scared to speak the truth aloud. It’s safer, isn’t it, to let somebody else do the talking? To pretend it’s all by chance. I would know, I quite literally wrote the book on it. And then I gave it to you, hoping you would feel it too._

His trail of thought ran dry as he made the connection. The song. The words. He was right. It wasn’t by chance. The book, he had read the book.

“Angel,” he whispered, more to Zira’s hair than any other part of him, as he rested his cheek against the top of the bookseller’s head.

“Mmm?”

There was the sweet sensation of Zira’s hand coming to rest softly against his chest, and Crowley closed his eyes and savoured it, the feeling of peaceful contentment, that he was finally exactly where he was supposed to be, that he was home.

“This song.” He tightened his grip on Zira’s hand, squeezed it gently, just once, hoped he understood everything that lay inside that simple gesture.

“I heard it somewhere.” Zira spoke the words casually, then pressed his forehead to Crowley’s chest. “No, that’s not right, is it? I _read_ it somewhere, somewhere rather beautiful. I don’t know how to tell you quite what that meant to me. I don’t know if I could ever find the words but I thought, perhaps, I could show you.”

_This song, angel, out of everything you could have chosen? Freefall, that’s what this is like. Like falling, and I don’t ever want to stop._

“Almost as if you were in my mind,” the bookseller continued, eyes roving across the room as they danced in a slow circle. “As if you knew what it felt like to see you for the first time. As if I’d been looking for you for a thousand years and, suddenly, there you were, right in front of me. As if you were there, that night, just for me. You’re like…the moon. You’re a secret.”

Crowley swallowed, pressed his teeth to his tongue until the threat of tears had passed. _Not now, don’t you dare._ The weight of it, of hearing somebody say those words about him, that he had been chosen, that someone had seen him in a crowd and thought, _yes, he’s the one_. And it wasn’t just someone, it was Zira, and that’s what made it matter. “And you’re the sun. A light in the dark. They never quite catch each other, do they?”

“Oh, they do sometimes, though it might take them a while. And when they do it eclipses everything.”

_Ten…_

_Nine…_

As the streets filled with the cries of a hundred voices shouting in tandem, Crowley and Zira broke apart, blinking hazily as if they’d forgotten quite where they were.

“Look.” Crowley nodded towards the clock above the fireplace, the minute hand a slither away from midnight. He grinned at Zira as they peered out of the window to find people lining the street, spilling out from bars, drinks primed and ready to ring in the new year. “We almost missed it.”

As the clock struck midnight and the last year bade the world farewell, a dog walker and a bookseller stood by the windows of a very dusty bookshop in Soho, arms wrapped around each other, a sleepy dog sitting between them.

_Should auld acquaintance be forgot,   
And never brought to mind? _

While the traditional drunken wail of Auld Lang Syne rose up from the outside world and strangers and friends alike crossed hands, Crowley and Zira turned away, back to their quiet bubble.

“What are your new year’s resolutions, angel, what do you want?” Crowley asked, draping both arms around Zira’s shoulders, linking his fingers behind his neck.

_You. Just you. That’s all I want. _But he couldn’t say that, not yet, so instead he said the next best thing. “I’m going to stop being so scared. And I’m going to start saying yes more.”

There was a pause then and he looked up into Crowley’s eyes, brought a hand up to rest against the side of his face. A kiss. Such a simple thing. A routine they had slipped into so easily. A kiss for comfort, to say goodbye, to say _I’ve got you, whatever happens_. And yet in that moment it seemed like the most impossible thing in the world, to take control, to make the first move, to say _this is what I feel, what I want_. He smiled, and then he looked away. Maybe next time.

“Scared, angel?” _Because I am. Because this is it, isn’t it? This is the big one. This, after all of these months, is the one that will truly change everything._

“Resolutions are going well, if you couldn’t tell.” Zira laughed mirthlessly at his own frustration.

“Well,” Crowley breathed, sliding his hands down until his fingers could curl around the open neck of Zira’s shirt, that soft fabric feeling as familiar as his own fingerprint. “Let’s try your second one. Can I kiss you?”

“Yes.”

There was time for a smile, the sort of smile that imprinted itself on Zira’s memory, that he held in his mind in those midnight hours when he thought of nothing but the aching need to be with Crowley, to hold him, to kiss him until the dawn broke. Yes, there was time for a smile, and then Crowley ducked his head to bring his lips to Zira’s. Soft, sweet, a question and an answer all at once, and then it was over.

_Fire_, Zira thought, as they broke apart and he looked into Crowley’s eyes, found the reflection of flames flickering in them. Something bright, something that spreads like a blaze. _There’s fire in your eyes_.

Crowley looked back at him, held his face in his hands, smiled at the halo of a streetlight he found reflected in the bookseller’s eyes. _Angel, that’s what you are, every part of you._

“Again,” Zira whispered, his voice low and insistent. “Kiss me again. I don’t want to be scared any more. Not of this.”

It was all Crowley had been waiting for, for Zira to finally say _yes, yes, kiss me again, this is what I want,_ and it unlocked something, a deep-seated hunger he had barely kept at bay for those long weeks since Halloween night, since the first time they had given into desire.

His lips crashed roughly against Zira’s, teeth scraping against the bookseller’s bottom lip as he pushed him backwards until they collided with the closest available surface. The desk. _That’ll do. It’ll have to._ Zira reached behind him to sweep away whatever was in the way, sending loose papers and books cascading down to the ground, fanning out across the floor as he hopped up onto the desk, hooking one leg around Crowley's thighs to pull him closer. Crowley pushed him down against the hard surface, one thigh pressed between his knees to ease his legs apart, an arm around his back holding him up as the other fumbled between them to unbuckle his belt.

“Upstairs,” Zira demanded, the words coming out as a desperate breath against Crowley’s neck. “Upstairs. Now.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Welllll HELLO my favourite angels and demons, how are you all doing on this fine Friday? Hope you all have fun weekend plans, let me know what you'll be up to! I had a wonderful time in London yesterday - the Ritz was *glorious* and Hamilton was a dream <3. Had a stroll through St James's Park and did not pinpoint THE bench but I will when I'm not sprinting past in a carb coma to try and get to the theatre in time 😂.
> 
> Anyway! New Year's Eve is well underway 👀. Next chapter is coming (🍆) on Sunday.
> 
> <3
> 
> P.S. The song they dance to is George Michael's cover of The First Time Ever I Saw Your Face - it's up on the playlist (along with the other chapter songs) for those who indulge.


	20. This Year's Love

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> And then Crowley felt something warm and wet against his stomach. He looked down in shock, while Zira looked up at him with barely concealed amusement on his face.

**12.16am, January 1st. Z. Fell and Co., Soho.**

Outside in Soho, drunken revellers were filling the streets, clamouring for taxis and whooping into the night sky about new year’s resolutions. Vague declarations of _New Year, New Me_ were thrown up into the ether, a hundred voices shouting at once and filling the air with curls of condensation as they poured out of pubs and bars, bound for clubs and afterparties, ready for the new year to begin with a hangover and, perhaps, if their late night mating call was successful, a stranger in their bed.

Inside the little flat nestled above Z. Fell and Co. a dog walker and a bookseller who had stopped being strangers a long time ago were slowly, and soberly, peeling away the layers until they would be laid bare, with nothing left to hide.

_Oh, finally. Took your bloody time, didn’t you? It’s not like some of us have been waiting, I don’t know, millennia for paradise, only to end up stuck inside the galaxy’s most hesitant dog walker._

_Please stop. I can’t concentrate on two things at once. And I’m not hesitant, I just…care. I’ve got something to lose here._

There was a heavy pause then, in the dark recesses of Crowley’s mind, and he knew the voice hadn’t retreated, it was just…was it thinking? Disembodied anti-consciences shouldn’t need to think, should they? They should just…be.

_Not that it’s in my nature to be trustworthy but you have got to trust me when I say I have a lot more to lose than you do. So sort your head out._

_It would be easier to sort my head out if you weren’t in it._

Zira pulled back a fraction, ran a hand through Crowley’s hair as he stared up at him in the haze of streetlights that filtered in through the open curtains. Zira found something in his eyes that might have been nervousness but might have been something sharper. Fear, perhaps? _What are we doing, Crowley? Is this real? Tell me this is real for you. _“Are you okay? I can…we can stop, if you want to, if you’re not all right. You don’t look all right. Are you all right?”

_I think he gets the point, my boy. So many questions. Curious little thing, aren’t you?_

_Not now._

_Yes now, honestly. Just…listen to me. You might actually get somewhere. I haven’t steered you wrong so far, have I?_

_I’m getting somewhere just fine on my own, thank you very much._

Crowley leaned down, kissed him again, and Zira forced the voice to retreat back into silence. He didn’t like to think about it, what it might mean, but it was getting far too talkative for his liking. Petulant, as well, at times. It was stress, must be. Most things were, he’d read that somewhere.

“Yes.” Crowley’s voice, low and soft in the darkness, words punctuated with kisses that ran deep enough that he could barely gather himself to finish the sentence. “Yes, yes, I’m all right. Understatement. Better than all right. Tickety-boo, as you would say.”

Though the feeling of doing anything but kiss Zira felt like torture, Crowley sat back on his heels and reached for Zira’s hand in the dark, pulling him up until they were kneeling opposite each other on the soft mattress. Slowly, deliberately, he undid the buttons of Zira’s shirt one by one, sliding it over his shoulders, fingers running gently over his skin as more and more of his body was exposed. Crowley sat back then, bending low to run his tongue across Zira's stomach, fingers tugging his belt undone, one hand stroking the soft skin at the small of his back.

_Oh god, look at him, _he thought, as he gazed up at Zira’s face, half-silhouetted in streaks of light, skin illuminated in gold. _I will never have the words to tell him everything he is. Look at him._

_Have you ever heard of the expression preaching to the choir?_

Then Zira was reaching forward to slide his t-shirt over his head and suddenly there was only that primal feel of skin pressed against skin, that dizzying sensation of two hearts pounding against each other. Zira’s palm was against his chest, thumb pressed to his collar bone as he pushed him down onto the bed, straddling one of his legs, kissing him as if he’d just given himself permission to feel, to _really_ feel everything he had been afraid of.

“You asked me what I want. This. Tonight. This is what I want,” he murmured and there was no question in his voice, no fearful hesitation. He kissed him again, tongue sliding against Crowley’s as the dog walker shifted his thigh between Zira’s, grinned against his lips as he felt him grind down against him.

“The feeling’s mutual, so that’s convenient.” Crowley leaned down to run his tongue slowly up the length of Zira’s neck, sliding a hand to his back, pulling him closer. He felt the length of him hard against his thigh, drove his hips up to meet Zira’s and relished that sound, that whimper of desire, soft against his lips. _Again. Moan for me again, angel._

How many nights had he spent tangled up between the sheets with a face he couldn’t have picked out of a line-up the next day? How many nights searching for something with a stranger, wondering if the next time or the next would be the one, the time he fell headfirst into the adventure he had spent his life searching for? _Was I good enough? Am I what you want?_ Those countless times of slinking home in the dawn hours feeling empty, feeling lost. _No, no, not that time. Maybe next time. Maybe the next one_.

But this was Zira, this was real, this wasn’t _somebody, anybody_ to try and make him feel something. This was Zira, who could make him feel breathless with the brush of a finger against his, feel infinity with a kiss. This was Zira, who saw through that painstakingly-styled air of nonchalance, saw another lost soul looking for a home, who had come back again and again, who had found him in his darkest moments, who made him brave enough to stand still, to stop trying to outrun loneliness because here they were, defeating it, together.

Before he had time to descend further into his reverie on the euphoric joy of grinding up against the prissy little bookseller who had blossomed, under the sheets, into quite the decadent handful, Crowley’s focus was pulled to the voice in his head that sounded very much like it was…pleading. Or perhaps bargaining. Two things, he was sure, that fell widely outside of its comfort zone, judging by the bitterness it was carefully trying to conceal.

_Okay, look, hear me out. Why don’t you let me loose, eh? Really get this party started. You know I'm good for it. Look at Halloween. Where would you have been without-_

_Back. Off._

_Don’t you get lippy with me. I could destroy your world, little one._

_Getting lippy is exactly what I'm trying to do and it’s very fucking hard when you won’t shut up._

As Crowley fought to keep control, he was wholly unaware that the man whose hands were roaming down towards the front of his jeans was fighting the same internal battle.

_Just. Stay. Calm. Why don’t I take the helm? Calm as a millpond in here._

_Can you stop distracting me, please? What do you know anyway?_

_Rather a lot more than you realise, young man_. And there it was, that trademark huff of impatience.

Zira pulled away, kneeling back between Crowley’s thighs and running his hands down the length of his chest, across his stomach, before coming to rest at the waistband of his jeans.

_God, he looks like heaven._

_…And he tastes like sin. _One last parting shot before it flounced off into the night, leaving Zira blissfully alone to do nothing other than discover just how true that last statement was.

He was vaguely aware of the gasping sound of his own breath as he held Crowley’s hips steady with one hand, pressing him down against the bed, fiddling with that godforsaken top button of his jeans with the other hand.

“_Bloody _thing,” he hissed, looking down at Crowley who was beaming back, one hand resting behind his head.

“Problem?” he asked, blinking innocently.

Zira sat back on his heels, defeated. “Are these the Halloween jeans again, Crowley?”

“Yes.” He grinned, sitting up to kiss him, a quick peck on the lips. “They’re lucky.”

Zira laughed against him. “Not if I can’t get you out of the infernal things. I didn’t think they could get any tighter.”

“Well,” Crowley explained patiently, laying back down and gesturing down between them, “that was before you and your…thighs.”

He took pity on Zira then, reaching down to unbutton them smoothly with one hand. “Easy. Don’t know what all the fuss is about."

Zira shot him a glare that dissolved into a smile as quickly as it arrived, then tugged his jeans down over his thighs, leaned down to graze his teeth across Crowley’s stomach and sweep a hand across the front of his black boxer shorts, smirking against his skin as he heard him suck in a sharp breath.

“That,” Crowley murmured, leaning up on his elbows, “was not an accident.” _Don’t stop there, please don’t stop there. Touch me again, I’m begging you._

“That was very much intentional.” Zira looked up at him, stripped his jeans the rest of the way off and let them fall messily to the floor, belt clattering against the floorboards.

Crowley felt warm fingers curl around the waistband of his boxers, looked up at the ceiling as he exhaled a sigh of anticipation. _Don’t tease me, no, do tease me, tease me all night if that’s what you want._

Suddenly the limping lumber of four heavy paws meandered up the stairs and Crowley hissed an expletive, reaching for the duvet and tugging it across his stomach, as if that would do anything to hide Zira’s hand splayed across him.

The pawsteps fell silent and Zira nodded to himself. _No harm, no foul. _He pushed the duvet back, slid a hand underneath Crowley to ease his hips up and…then Crowley was bracing a hand against his chest, a look of panic on his face.

“Wait, wait, wait.”

They turned to find Barnaby sitting in the open doorway, tail swishing happily from side to side across the floorboards like a feather duster.

“Barnaby. Go downstairs.”

Barnaby did not go downstairs.

“Barnaby.” Crowley’s voice was deeper this time, impatience creeping in as he bit out the words. “Go. Away.”

“He’s fine.” Zira shrugged, giving Barnaby a little wave with the hand that wasn’t otherwise engaged.

“He is _not_ fine. I’m not letting him watch_. _That’s not okay, is it?” He looked across at Zira, cocked his head to the side as he considered it. “No. No, surely not.”

_Cockblocked by my own dog. Is this revenge for the Santa hat?_ Crowley looked into Barnaby’s eyes, found no twinkle of vengeance, only canine curiosity. There was a nerve-wracking moment when he clambered back to his feet and took a step inside the room, sniffing the air with interest, but then he turned back and slowly ambled out into the corridor, before he lay down with a telltale _floomf_ that echoed around the corner.

“Now, where were we?”

Zira lightly twanged the elastic waistband, fabric snapping against Crowley’s hips. “I believe I was trying my damnedest to get you out of these.”

“Right, yes, by all means, please continue.”

_Don’t forget your socks this time, idiot._

_Oh shit, you’re right. You’re good for something then._

_I’d be good for a lot more if you LET. ME. OUT._

_I’m too horny to focus on how weird this is. But tomorrow I will. Can I just, for this night, please have some privacy? I’m literally begging you to be quiet. My own mind, and I have to beg you to shut up, do you have any idea how demeaning that is?_

_All right, all right, I’m going. You’d better show that angel a good time, understand?_

Not needing to be told twice, Crowley scooped an arm around Zira’s waist, flipped him over until his back was against the mattress and then swung a leg over his thighs, rolling his hips forward slowly, slowly, slowly, until he heard Zira’s breath hitch in the darkness. He reached down between them, pulling Zira’s belt free, wrenching his trousers over his hips and down his thighs. Zira kicked them off, heaving out an impatient sigh as if every second spent on the laborious task of undressing was wasted time. _I don’t know, angel_, Crowley thought, running both hands down the length of the bookseller’s legs, _you might be the best present I’ve unwrapped all week…wait, how did he, sneaky little bastard…is he some kind of sock removal wizard?_

__

But there were more important matters at hand than who was and wasn’t still wearing their socks.

__

“Boxers? Really?” Crowley looked down in the dim light, ran one finger along the breadth of his hips, grinned as Zira gasped in a tight breath.

__

“Yes,” he said, voice a thin snit. “What of it?”

__

“I just thought you’d be more of a…”

__

“They’re new.”

__

Crowley took the opportunity to let his eyes trace a slow, lingering gaze up and down the length of Zira’s body, registered the look of nervousness when he got to his face. He ran a hand down his chest, tucked a finger into his waistband and tugged him close, kissing him again. “Well, I like them very much.”

__

_The most shocking thing about this is that I’m beginning to believe you. _That somebody like Crowley, somebody surrounded by people and love, with every second of every day being filled with excitement and work and music and _life_, that somebody like that could choose to be there, with somebody like him, somebody scared and alone, curling into that safe life, that _little_ life, it seemed like something beyond comprehension. Something impossible.

__

It wasn’t something he was used to, being desired. It was something that happened to other people, usually people who looked a lot like Crowley. No, Zira was not somebody that people desired; he was _sweet_, cuddly, soft. Things that were warm. There was no danger to him, no edge. Nothing to chase, to pine after. And that was why, when Crowley leaned back against the sheets and pulled Zira down on top of him, held his lip between his teeth for a heartbeat and whispered “_I want you”_ against his skin like he meant it, like he really wanted him, maybe even needed him, Zira understood, finally, the feeling of being desired. And it was intoxicating.

__

Mouth open in anticipation, tongue pressed against his top teeth, Zira stared down into Crowley’s fiery eyes as he slipped one hand inside the tight fabric of his boxers and tugged them down over his thighs with the other. His words were almost lost underneath the slow exhale of pleasure that escaped Crowley’s lips as he rested his head back against the pillows and pushed himself up against Zira’s palm. “Apparently so.”

__

As he felt Zira’s fingers wrap around the length of him, Crowley bit his lip so hard he tasted iron on his tongue, his breath nothing but a hiss through the gap in his lips as he exhaled all of that heart-racing, mind-spinning need for answers and definitions and labels. There would be time for that but then, in that moment, there was nothing in his mind but the weight of Zira’s chest against his, the feeling of his touch, that carnal need coursing through his body. _Yes, yes, just like that, don’t stop, angel._

__

“Do you realise,” Zira breathed, leaning forward, lips hovering close to Crowley’s ear, “that we could have spent every night doing this? All that wasted time.”

__

“I thought about it.” Crowley swallowed tightly, words coming out as little more than a breathless pant as he turned his head to press his lips to Zira’s neck, his jaw, his shoulder, whatever strip of skin was in reaching distance. “Every night.”

__

“And yet.”

__

“Thought you might get bored of me afterwards.” He said it with a little laugh, voice light enough that it came out as teasing self-deprecation but there was a nugget of truth there, the feeling of being something disposable, something single-use. Zira caught it, that vulnerability, wondered when it had become second nature to read between the lines and hear every word that Crowley left unsaid.

__

Zira looked down between them, then looked back up at Crowley, kissing him softly, and then hard enough that they were both left breathless, hearts _beat beat beating_ together. “Bored of this? Every night. I could be with you every night for eternity and it still wouldn’t be enough.”

__

Crowley looked up at the ceiling, biting his lip as a growl rolled up from his throat, one hand gently resting on Zira’s arm as he felt the bookseller’s hand slide up and down, gripping him tight enough that he felt desire building, loose enough that he was a breath away from begging for more.

__

And then Crowley felt something warm and wet against his stomach. He looked down in shock, while Zira looked up at him with barely concealed amusement on his face.

__

“What the _hell_?” He glared down at the sopping wet panda toy that was now nestled happily against him. With his chin resting on the edge of the bed, Barnaby sat there, eyes focused on nothing but his beloved gift.

__

“That _bloody_ panda.” Crowley slung the toy onto the floor, heard Barnaby’s footsteps limp sadly away out into the hallway. As he guided Zira’s hand back down between them, he made a mental note to order a dog gate, preferably one with next day delivery.

__

***

__

The all-night party in the Soho streets continued outside, drunken screaming and shouts peppered with the shrieking sound of fireworks whistling into the air. Inside the flat, however, the noise of the outside world was drowned out by the sound of low moans as Crowley pressed the back of his head into the pillows and arched his back, twisting his fingers in the sweaty sheets as he felt a flare of something hot and desperate begin to uncoil within him. Zira reached up blindly with one hand and pinned his wrist to the bed, fingers gripping his skin as the other hand dug into his thigh. Crowley _felt_ rather than heard Zira groan against him, felt the bookseller’s tongue swirl up and down the length of him, heard his own breaths come fast and hard into the hot air around them.

__

The only words he seemed capable of saying were _fuck _and Zira’s name, panted again and again until they lost all meaning, until he could barely hear anything at all, saw a galaxy before his eyes as he squeezed them closed. There was nothing in his mind but _yes, yes, yes, oh god, yes_. He felt Zira let go of his wrist, felt the bookseller’s fingertips feather their way across his stomach, then five half moons dug into his skin and he heard himself cry out desperately.

__

“Please," he breathed, fingers knotted tightly in the bookseller’s hair as he felt that delicious rhythm, _faster faster faster_ until all he could see were stars. “Please don’t stop.”

__

And then came a familiar wet squelch of fabric was gently nosed against his forearm.

__

“Are you fucking _kidding_ me?" Crowley leaned up on his elbows, chest heaving as he caught his breath, felt that heat in his stomach recede just a fraction. He relaxed his grip on Zira’s hair as the bookseller looked up at him, wiping his lip with his thumb and smirking at the telltale thump of Barnaby’s tail against the floor.

__

“I think someone wants to play fetch.”

__

“Ngk,” said Crowley.

__

He shooed Barnaby away with one hand, turned his attention back to Zira, tightened his grip on his hair and shivered as he felt a warm breath against his skin, fingers wrapping around the base of him. Then came that familiar _thump, thump, thump. _Crowley closed his eyes and roared out an expletive that may well have sent all the pigeons in Soho flying towards the heavens. “I can’t, not while he’s watching. _Fuck!_”

__

He sat up on the bed, one elbow resting against his knee as he pressed his forehead against his palm. Despondent, that was the word. And then he heard a faint laugh bubble up from the darkness, felt Zira’s hand slide up his thigh. “I’ll make it worth the wait, I swear to you.”

__

“Three times,” he hissed, reaching out for Zira’s face in the dim light, kissing him until the sting of frustration began to subside, replaced with the urgent ache for Zira to finish what he started. “Man’s best friend until it matters.”

__

He swung his legs off of the bed, reaching down to slip off his socks before Zira could notice, then hooked a finger through Barnaby’s collar, modesty barely contained with the other hand as he led a very oblivious shepherd dog out of the bedroom and across the hall to the kitchen. “Don’t _look_ at it, for god’s sake, Barnaby.”

__

Alone in the bedroom, Zira ran his tongue over his lips. Sin. _Don’t be too long_, he thought, _I’m not done with you yet._

__

He heard the kitchen door close and a couple of steps pace across the hall, followed by one incredulous bark. There was the sound of the kitchen door being flung back open and Zira heard Crowley’s voice speaking in an urgent whisper, low enough that he couldn’t make out what was being said. Then a sigh, and the sound of the fridge opening and closing. The kitchen door was closed again, and footsteps approached the bedroom.

__

Crowley sauntered through the door, lean limbs catching the moonlight just so, face soft with desire as he slipped back into bed and laced his arms around Zira’s neck, kissing him as feverishly as if they’d been apart for days. Zira closed his eyes, happy to be swept away wherever Crowley planned on taking him, would have followed him anywhere, of course.

__

_How is he mine?_ Zira thought, palming a hand against his chest to press him back down against the mattress, easing his thighs open and kneeling between them. _How is it possible that this is real?_

__

“You were a while,” Zira murmured against his inner thigh, pausing just long enough for his tongue to work its way up from thigh to groin.

__

“Had to bribe him with cheese.” Crowley swallowed a groan, brought one hand up to tug gently at the lengths of Zira’s hair, felt his stomach clench as the bookseller looked up at him, eyes soft and bright, hair messy and wild. _You are the most beautiful thing I’ve ever seen. And I’ll tell you that, soon enough._

__

“Not the stilton?” Zira raised his head then, one hand steadying himself as he looked back towards the open door that led out to the hallway.

__

“Cheddar. I’m not an idiot,” Crowley explained, as if it was obvious. “Now purge that bloody panda from my memory.”

__

***

__

“Yes…fuck…angel…” As the clock struck one a.m., Crowley’s words stopped making sense, replaced with ragged, urgent breaths that built and built until he heard himself begging for it, a faraway voice that must have been his own. He felt one last delicious swirl of Zira’s tongue against him, looked down to find pale blue eyes locked on his and that was it, that was the moment that sent him hurtling over the edge. His fingers twisted in Zira’s hair until his knuckles flared white, his other hand fisted in the sheets so tightly they had pulled away from the mattress. He felt his legs start to shake as something unfurled deep in the pit of his stomach and then he was only sucking in one shuddering, gasping breath as his hips bucked against Zira’s lips. _Finally. Finally. Finally._

__

He blinked his eyes open, saw stardust dance in front of his vision as his heart began to slow. It could have been a second, a minute, a century; time, once again, had become relative. He raked his hand through Zira’s hair, felt a trail of kisses pressed from his hip up to his chest, his neck, and then his lips.

__

“Angel,” he murmured, a thumb stroking the length of Zira’s cheekbone, and suddenly there was nothing left to say, nothing left but a kiss filled with hope that, perhaps, this would be the night they came to think of as the first night, the date they came to celebrate year after year. The night _you and I_ became _us_.

__

As Zira kissed him, lips soft and wet and bee-stung, there was one thought winding its way around Crowley’s mind. _I want to make him feel that good. I want to be the one who can make him feel that good. A fraction of that good._

__

He sat up, braced a hand against Zira’s shoulder and guided him down until he was laying back on the bed, one hand wrapped around Crowley’s wrist as he looked up at him, lips parted, glistening in the moonlight.

__

“You now.” His voice was a throaty growl as he stripped Zira’s boxers off in a motion that was smoothly fluid thanks to nothing other than the urgent desire for there to be no barrier left between them. And then there was nothing, nothing left to hide, just the two of them skin to skin between the sheets as Crowley stroked Zira’s hair back with both hands, kissing him as sweetly as if it was the first time. _It feels like it_, he thought to himself, _every time. It feels like the first time every time._

__

He felt him against his thigh, that swell of desire, thrusted his hips closer, heard Zira whimper as he kissed him harder. _Do you like that, angel? _He kissed his way down Zira’s chest, down down down until he was bent low between his thighs, trailing his tongue across his hip, closer, closer…

__

_Bzzzt. Bzzzt._

__

“Fuck. Off. Lily.” Crowley hissed, leaning up to grab for his phone to switch it off, only to recoil in surprise as the vibrations continued and his phone lay dormant in his hand. “Oh. It’s not mine.”

__

Zira twisted towards the bedside table, hands fumbling for his phone in confusion. “Probably Raphael. Well, definitely Raphael. It’s only one of you two that would be calling me.”

__

Crowley gave him a little pout of mock-sympathy, replacing his phone face-down on the bedside table as Zira rifled through the drawer for the source of the ringing.

__

“Don’t you patronise me,” he huffed, looking over at Crowley as he pulled his phone free and cancelled the call.

__

"Would I?” Crowley rolled onto his back, laughing, as Zira deposited his phone back into the drawer and slammed it closed. “The universe is conspiring against us.”

__

“Yes, well, the course of true…” Zira froze and Crowley looked at him with amused interest. “…Fondness…never did run smooth.”

__

“Fondness.”

__

“Well, whatever you wish to call it.”

__

“We’ve moved on from fraternising then?”

__

Zira gestured airily between them, two naked bodies thigh to thigh on the bed. “Oh, I rather think we have.”

__

And then came the vibration of Zira’s phone buzzing to life in the drawer.

__

“Good god, man, would you _please_ leave me be?”

__

As Zira yanked the drawer open Crowley felt a flare of unease in his chest. Somebody calling twice in quick succession had taken on a new meaning in his mind in the wake of Barnaby’s accident. What if something was wrong, what if something had happened? He thought back to that nightmarish day, how desperately he had wanted to hear Zira’s voice.

__

“Answer it,” he murmured, nudging Zira’s thigh gently with his own, “just in case.”

__

“Zira, my little one!” Raphael’s voice boomed around the room, slurred and happy, and they could all but smell the sherry on his breath all the way in Soho.

__

Crowley sighed, shifting back until he was sitting upright against the headboard. Next to him, Zira turned and gave him a pointed look, gesturing to the phone with the other hand and mouthing _he’s fine._

__

As Raphael’s monologue continued, Zira _hmm-_ing and _oh wow_-ing every few seconds, Crowley found his mind wandering onto the matter at hand. Well, the matter that should have been at hand, if it wasn’t for Raphael’s outpouring of late night affection that was quickly reaching Shakespearean lengths. He kicked the duvet away, leaned over to run a hand down Zira’s leg in the darkness and nudge his knees apart.

__

_Just a slight distraction_, he thought, teeth nipping at Zira’s stomach as he reached a hand between them. He heard a sharp intake of breath, looked up to find Zira looking down at him, face lit by the glow of his phone, front teeth pressing a furrow in his bottom lip as he bit away a smile.

__

“Happy new year,” Raphael continued, his voice thick with emotion. And sherry. “May it be everything you dream of, you sweet boy. May every wish you hold in your mind, every desire you hold in your…”

__

“Hand?” Crowley offered helpfully, as Zira lay back against the pillows, moaning, forgetting himself for a minute.

__

When Raphael’s voice came again it was filled with parental concern. “Are you all right, dearest? You’re not being sick again, are you? Did you forget to eat dinner? You know what happens if you drink on an empty stomach.”

__

“No, no, I’m fine. Tip top. Tickety-boo.” A pause then, as Crowley coughed out a laugh in the background. “Happy new year to you both, my dearest friends. May your days be merry and bright. Etcetera. Little busy actually, Raphael, if you don’t mind I’ll bid you…”

__

“Zira! Do you have…company?”

__

“Yes, as a matter of fact, I do.” All Zira really wanted to do was end the call, deposit his phone at the bottom of a well somewhere very far away, and turn his attention back to Crowley. As it turned out, however, the universe had other plans.

__

“Hi, Raphael!” Crowley beamed up at the phone and Zira closed his eyes, knowing the conversation was far from over.

__

“We love you, Zira, you know that, don’t you? And all we want is for you to be happy the way that you deserve. I knew you’d fallen for him, little one, when I saw the way you looked at each other. That’s real, that look, what you have together is real and I’m so happy to see it, I’m so happy you found each other. Don’t let each other go, don’t let life get in the way of what you want, what…”

__

Zira shifted the phone then, angled it away in a bid to stop Raphael’s entire inebriated blessing being overheard. What he was really afraid of was Crowley realising exactly how much he had told Raphael, how unflinchingly honest he had been about his feelings. Though Crowley didn’t catch every word, he caught enough to stop what he was doing, to sit back on his heels and quietly watch Zira’s face, a little smile tugging at the corners of his mouth.

__

“You too, yes…and you…goodnight…I know, I know, me too…goodnight.” Zira widened his eyes as he ended the call, sighing good-naturedly as he looked down at the screen and then up at Crowley. “I think he was crying.”

__

“It’s sweet, you know, how much they love you.” Crowley rested his chin against Zira’s chest, hands steepled against the mattress on either side of his waist.

__

“It is.” Zira smiled down at him, ran a hand through his hair. “And they _love_ you. I mean, how could…”

__

_Bzzzt. Bzzzt._

__

“No,” they said in tandem, grabbing for their phones and pounding the power buttons until both devices were blessedly silent. It didn’t matter whose phone it was, it didn’t matter who was calling, the rest of the night was theirs and theirs alone.

__

Crowley padded across to the window and tugged the curtains closed, then crossed the room to sweep the bedroom closed with his foot, before looking around for any other distractions.

__

“Right,” he said, hopping back into bed. “Phones: Off. Dog: Sequestered and pacified with cheese. Curtains: Closed. The outside world is shut out until morning.”

__

_Please just let me kiss him, just once, please. _That voice again, whispering in his mind with yearning so soft Crowley could barely recognise it as the same voice that mocked him with such rapturous glee. Before he could pay it any more mind, he felt Zira’s hand come to rest against his chest.

__

“Just us.” Zira’s lips found his in the dark as easily as if he was standing under a spotlight.

__

“Finally.” Crowley smiled against his lips, gave him one quick peck and then kissed a slow, teasing trail down the centre of his chest. He paused as he reached the base of his stomach, looked up to meet blue eyes in the darkness, then whispered two words before he dipped his head and Zira closed his eyes, moaning into the silence as he felt the first delicious sensation of Crowley’s tongue against his skin. “Your turn.”

__

_Is it possible_, Zira wondered, as a low groan rumbled out from his throat, _to die from desire? Because if it is, tonight is well and truly the night. _He heard a soft sigh escape his lips, a sound so loaded with longing that he barely recognised it as his own voice. He felt Crowley’s hands pressing his thighs apart, felt his lips sliding up and down the length of him in a rhythm that matched the pace of his racing heart. He looked down in the darkness, saw that mess of red hair shining in the thin moonlight that found its way in through a gap in the curtains. And yet the idea that it was happening, that it was _finally_ happening, that it was Crowley reducing him to a tremoring mass of limbs and vaguely articulated exhalations of lust, it felt like a dream.

__

And for those long months that’s all it had been. A dream. A fantasy to indulge in in those night time hours when sleep eluded him, when desire thrummed through his body, when all he could think of was Crowley, Crowley, Crowley, golden-eyed and flame-haired, pulling him close, pinning him down, kissing him until he could barely remember his own name.

__

_He could have anybody_, Zira thought, as his back arched in a movement that was as involuntary as it was welcome, anything to sustain that feeling of a mouth around him, of a tongue pressed to his skin. _He could have anybody he wants and he’s here, with me. _Crowley reached up in that moment, fingers grabbing at the sheets until he found Zira’s hand, slid his palm across the bookseller’s until it was flush to the mattress. There was the feeling of a soft moan against his skin, a vibration that left him biting back his own gasp of desire.

__

“Come here,” Zira whispered, words punctuated with shallow breaths. “Kiss me.”

__

Crowley’s mouth was replaced with a hand and then he was on top of him, lips against his neck as Zira swallowed every filthy word that was on the tip of his tongue, ready to be breathed into the night.

__

“Don’t, angel,” Crowley murmured, reaching up to bite gently at his earlobe. “You don't have to hold back, not with me.”

__

It was the first time, Zira realised with a jolt that brought with it a surge of emotion, that he had ever heard those words, that he had ever been told to let go, not to hold back, not to do or say or feel anything other than exactly what he wanted.

__

“Look at me,” he breathed, and Crowley planted one last kiss against his neck, another against his lips, then pulled back and met his gaze.

__

Zira stared up at him, up at those golden eyes that burned like flames in the darkness, felt that familiar warmth spread through him as Crowley quickened his pace, smiled wickedly down as he saw him, saw every part of him, everything Zira had always felt the need to keep hidden. And as Zira looked up into that face, _that_ smile, he didn’t feel the need to close his eyes, to look away and hide his desire, to minimise the enormity of it, to bite his lip and keep quiet. He _wanted_ Crowley to hear him, to hear just how close he was pushing him to the edge, wanted to stare into his eyes and let himself be seen in that moment of ultimate vulnerability. _See me, please, let me be enough._

__

He pressed his damp forehead against Crowley’s neck as his breath came ragged and desperate, pleading for it, begging him not to stop, _just like that, oh god, just like that_. His nails raked across Crowley’s back, teeth sinking into the soft skin of his shoulder, and then he was trembling underneath him, crying out Crowley’s name in the darkness as he heard nothing but Crowley whispering in his ear, telling him he was beautiful, telling him he was perfect.

__

There was a moment of silence, of Crowley’s forehead pressed to his, of a hand cupping his cheek and soft lips kissing his, a tongue against his own. He could feel Crowley’s thighs resting against either side of his waist, felt his own hands slid down from Crowley’s back, felt his fingertips travel over the raised lines he barely remembered scratching into his skin seconds before.

__

“_Fuck._” The word was a quiet exhalation as his heart began to slow and Crowley flopped down next to him on the bed, one hand reaching out to rest against his soft stomach.

__

“Angel!” He heard him say, mock-incredulously. “Such language.”

__

“Start the year as we mean to go on.” Zira grinned up at the ceiling as they both dissolved into laughter. “I believe they call it starting the new year with a bang.”

__

He swung his legs over the side of the bed, padded towards the bathroom, turned back as he reached the doorway. “You know, I barely let myself believe this would ever happen.”

__

“Resigned to a lifetime of yearning, I’d wondered that too,” Crowley admitted.

__

"Sixty years of pining.” He laughed, unwinding a coil of toilet paper, dabbing it against his stomach.

__

“I don’t know, angel, nobody’s got time for that.”

__

***

__

As the party in the streets outside fell quiet and a blanket of silence settled over Soho, Crowley and Zira lay back to chest, legs entwined under the duvet, Crowley reaching behind to stroke up and down the length of Zira’s thigh while Zira’s cheek rested against his shoulder. Crowley glanced up at the bedside table, caught sight of the book he had given Zira for Christmas perched on top of a stack of hardback, his little round glasses neatly folded on top of it. He felt a swell of tenderness, gripped Zira’s hand. Was it too much to hope? Now the dust had settled, had those earlier declarations lost their meaning? Were they simply words said in the heat of the moment? _Please let this be the beginning, not the beginning of the end. Did I go too far, did I not go far enough? Was I okay, was I good enough?_

__

He heard Zira sigh against his back, felt that swell of tenderness twist into a knot of anxiety, of reality setting in. He knew the signal, that subtle yawn that was a poorly-masked hint, had come to expect it over the years. _Oh god, he wants me to leave. He’s done for the night and I’m still here. I should leave, it’s almost morning._

__

“Are you okay, angel?” he asked, trying to keep his voice light. He closed his eyes, waited for the words that would crush him.

__

“I’m just so happy, that’s all.” Zira snuggled closer to him, pressed a kiss to his shoulder. _How in the world did I get this lucky? How is this how I’m starting the year? Forget loneliness, I never want to feel solitude again, this is what I want, him in my bed, tonight and every night._

__

Next to him, Crowley braced himself. _But…when does it all go wrong? When does this feeling fall away beneath me? When is it time for the punchline? For reality?_

__

“Hey.” Zira felt him tense up, nudged him over until they were face to face, cupped his cheek in one hand, tilted his face up to kiss him. “What’s wrong?”

__

“I don’t want to be a secret.” He pressed his forehead to Zira’s, easier to be honest when you didn’t have to look into the eyes that could disarm you in a second. And it was time for it, honesty, if that night really was going to be the start of something there was no space for holding back, no time for words left unsaid.

__

“What do you mean?”

__

“Earlier, you said I’m like a secret. I don’t want to be…hidden away.” No more moonlit secrets masquerading as romance, no more wandering home, alone, lit by the dawn.

__

“No, no I didn’t mean it like that.” Zira’s face fell, and his words poured out, tumbling together in a great rush, as if he needed Crowley to hear him, to believe him. “It’s like I get to see a side of you that nobody else gets to see. I see you the way you are with the guys, the way you are on stage but then I get to see you like this; it feels like something that’s just for us, this side of you. That’s what I meant. You _are_ like a secret. But I would never want to keep it to myself. I couldn’t even if I wanted to. Raphael took one look at us and knew in a second, you heard him earlier. I didn’t need to say a word, he knew what this was when he saw the way I looked at you.”

__

Sometimes there are words enough to convey every emotion one pivotal moment can hold but sometimes only a kiss will do, aching and tender, a declaration all of its own.

__

“When I walked into that bar everything changed,” Crowley murmured as they broke apart. “I was…loneliness was in my bones. I thought if I never stopped, if I kept running, maybe it would never catch me. And then there was you.”

__

“And then there was you,” Zira echoed, brushing his nose against Crowley’s cheek. “It’s as if I was there that night waiting for you, for this.”

__

_This_. A siren wailed somewhere in the back of Crowley’s mind. _TheTalkTheTalkTheTalk. It’s happening. Stay calm, play it cool, don’t make it obvious._

__

“Angel, is…is this The Talk?”

__

_Subtle. Nice._

__

“Haven’t we spent the last four months having The Talk?” Zira propped himself up on one elbow, feathered his fingertips across Crowley’s hip. “Feels a bit redundant, doesn’t it?”

__

“Yes. But…_is_ this The Talk?”

__

“Yes, Crowley, this is The Talk.”

__

“Great. Good. The Talk. Just…means we’re both on the same page, doesn’t it? Nothing to second guess. Nice things, labels. Everyone likes to know where they stand, right? I know I do.”

__

_He’s waiting for me_, Zira realised with a pang, curled his fingers around Crowley’s in the dim early morning light. _He’s needs to hear me say it. Showing him isn’t enough, I need to tell him._ He thought back to the resolution he’d made those short hours ago that felt as though they had been made in another lifetime. _Be brave_, he reminded himself, _even if it scares you. _How to put into words something that felt too infinite to hold?

__

“I don’t know that I can put a label on it...but perhaps that’s the point of this, perhaps it’s supposed to be bigger than words. All I know is that I’ve been yours since the night I sat by your side and told you we might be soulmates. It scared me, the weight of it, I tried to fight it and god knows that failed spectacularly. I just know that being here with you, like this, is the only thing that makes sense.”

__

“It’s like we were…” Crowley paused, searching for the right word. “…Inevitable. No, that’s not quite right, is it? Something like that. It doesn’t have to make sense, I don't think. We’ll go as slowly as we need to until it does. As long as we’re an _us_, that’s all that matters.”

__

“Us.” Zira exhaled a sigh of utter contentment. “I love it when you say that.”

__

“We’d better get some sleep, angel, we can’t be late for brunch when everyone’s expecting _us_. They’ll demand all the gossip, you know, want to know everything about _us_. Maybe we’ll be late, maybe that’ll be an _us_ thing.” Crowley said it again and again, his hands palmed against Zira’s shoulders as he climbed on top of him, pausing to kiss him between sentences until they were both laughing, breathless, dizzy with the notion that, yes, finally, it had happened, finally, after the long months of questioning, of barely daring to dream, they had made it, they were an _us_.

__

As a dog walker and a bookseller leaned in for one last kiss goodnight, the sun began its slow ascent above the city, marking the beginning of a new year, a new start, and 365 days full of boundless possibilities.

__

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Good afternoon my loves! I hope you all had a truly delightful weekend doing whatever it is you like best <3.
> 
> Next chapter is coming on Tuesday!
> 
> Two new songs on the playlist, I have a soft spot for both of them and couldn't choose which fitted this chapter best sooo, enjoy.
> 
> Just because I enjoy sharing TRIVIA...this is the LONG BOI chapter to end all LONG BOIS. It's 1000 words longer than *any* *other* *chapter* from EITHER part.


	21. Origin of Love

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “Don’t you two look fresh-faced?” Lily leaned forward, elbows resting against the table as her dark eyes darted between them. “Romantic evening in, was it?”

**New Year’s Day. Z. Fell and Co., Soho.**

When Zira woke that morning he did so with a smile on his face. It was a smile entirely too wide for the morning of New Year’s Day but, even so, there it was, bold and bright.

_What a joy_, he thought, turning onto his side to face Crowley, who was still fast asleep next to him, _what a joy it is to wake up next to you, to watch you sleep._

It was the first year he remembered waking up while the hours still read a.m., the first time in recent memory when he would be able to enjoy the start of a brand new year without a pounding headache or a tongue thickly coated with alcoholic residue. His usual place of awakening on New Year’s Day was one of Raphael and Luci’s plush sofas, soft and deep enough to be a rather decadent place to wake up, all things considered, but still, there was something about beginning the year by waking up in a _bed_ that felt positively extravagant.

And then there was the company, which was a luxury in itself, albeit one that rose so highly above every other worldly luxury that it might as well exist on another celestial plane. While Zira was intimately acquainted with the soft side of Crowley’s personality, the sweetness that rounded out the sharp sarcasm, the biting dryness that he wore like armour, there was nothing soft about his physical appearance. He was all hard edges, sharp elbows, cheekbones that gave way to a well of shadows underneath. Even the lines on his forehead, though relaxed in sleep, were straight slashes, a physical underscore of the anxiety he swallowed deep, deep down, so carefully hidden behind that smile, that swagger. But it had flared up, hadn’t it, the night before? Zira had felt it in the way he’d frozen as they had lain together afterwards, just a few breaths away from sleep, in the way he’d quietly spoken his truth as if he was ashamed of feeling it, of feeling anything at all.

As Zira watched him sleep, hands tucked neatly under his cheek, the bookseller smiled at the peaceful serenity on his face. Crowley was a lot of things, most of them all at once, but serene wasn’t usually one of them. In sleep, though, that was exactly what he was. Something angelic, almost. Zira laughed to himself, remembering those eyes staring down at him in the darkness those few hours ago, the feeling of a hand braced against his thighs, the weight of a chest pressed to his. There had been nothing angelic about _that_, had there? Perhaps that was the beauty of him, though, that duality a delicious mystery, that ability to be both sweetly vulnerable and temptation incarnate in a single nighttime.

It was tempting to wake him up, to accidentally cough a little too loudly until he stirred, then shake his shoulders and wail ‘again, again’ until he got the message that a repeat performance was desired. Just about everything about Crowley was tempting. Merely existing within his vicinity was enough to make you want to challenge yourself, to unwind yourself from your comfort zone and get spiralled away in the tornado he left in his wake.

As long dark eyelashes twitched amid a dream, Zira thought back to the first time he had seen him, what the single first thought he had ever had about Crowley was. It could have been something swooningly poetic, a deep relief at finding a kindred spirit, a soulmate. If he was honest, though, he knew what his first thought had been: _Good lord, that’s an attractive man. _And he was that. Of course he was that. But he was so much more than _just_ that. What he had already discovered was bordering on intoxicating but there was, Zira realised with a shiver of excitement, so much more left to learn about the enigmatic dog walker who lay sleeping beside him.

A quiet whine from the kitchen pulled at his focus then. Barnaby politely reminding them that he had been sequestered for rather enough hours and a morning walk was on the agenda. Zira propped himself up on his elbows, thought about helping him down the stairs and taking him for a slow stroll to the nearby square for some fresh air. It might be nice for Crowley, he mused, to have a lay in without his usual dog parent responsibilities. Then again, there was the chance that Crowley might wake up while he was gone, might feel a flicker of worry that the words said aloud the night before had somehow undone the magic they’d quietly woven around themselves. He could leave a note on the pillow for him to find, a notion that felt romantic rather than cliche while he was still caught in that heady afterglow. He could send a text, perhaps, really embrace the future. After all, in no time at all he would be the master of his own online business venture. There were any number of things Zira could have done that morning but, as it turned out, burrowing into the warm cocoon of blankets and gazing adoringly at Crowley had no competition.

“Didn’t anyone ever tell you it’s rude to stare?” That voice, laced with a smile, as two eyelids fluttered open. And there he was, looking sleep-rumpled and perfect.

“I’m appreciating you.”

“Then by all means, please continue.” He reached an arm out underneath the duvet, let it come to rest on Zira’s waist as he pulled him closer.

A kiss, easy and unhurried. Cool fingertips meeting warm skin. A moan breathed into the morning air. Bliss between the sheets.

“You,” Zira murmured, lips wet as they broke apart, “are the best thing I’ve seen all year.”

“I haven’t had much competition yet.”

“Ask me again in December. I’ll say the same thing.” Zira laughed, pressed his forehead to Crowley’s, steadying himself against the dizzying realisation that he hadn’t, in fact, imagined every glorious moment of the night before.

“Brunch,” Crowley said, pressing one last kiss to Zira’s cheek before swinging his legs out of bed and linking his fingers together, stretching his arms up towards the ceiling. “Overpriced eggs for everyone. Sounds perfect.”

“Oh my…god.” Zira’s voice was a whisper of dread as he watched Crowley walk away from him towards the bathroom.

“What?” Crowley stopped in the doorway, turned back, fear knitting his brows together. “What’s wrong?”

“I…” Zira trailed off, pointing at his back. “I am so sorry.”

He twisted to look in the bathroom mirror, found two sweeping arcs of scratch marks cascading out from his shoulder blades and fanning down either side of his back, curls of white skin frayed at the edges of each red welt. _Well, well, well_, he thought to himself, _not so angelic now, are you?_ He squeezed a thick slug of toothpaste across the pad of his index finger, met Zira’s eyes in the mirror with a smirk. “I did tell you not to hold back.”

“Mmm, they say be careful what you wish for.”

“Worked out all right for me in the end.” Crowley winked at Zira’s reflection, before kicking the door closed, leaving the bookseller beaming to himself in the bedroom.

***

_What a beautiful day_, Crowley thought, as he walked through the streets of Soho, neatly dodging discarded fried chicken boxes, holding Barnaby’s lead in one hand and Zira’s hand in the other. _Life. Is. Good._

“Ah, there they are.” He nodded to the cluster of tables nestled on the pavement outside Balans, a brunch spot Zira had walked past from time to time, slowing his pace for long enough to breathe in the warm aroma of tomatoes and beef and rosemary simmering together in a heavenly combination that left his stomach growling at the mere memory of it.

Three people sat at a table outside the cafe; a tall, imposing outline flanked by two smaller figures, which were no less intimidating. As three sets of dark glasses stared out at passersby, Zira felt a prick of nervousness in his throat. While Crowley’s friends had never been anything other than welcoming to him, he had never sat down in such close proximity with them for any stretch of time, let alone for an entire meal, and never, of course, as anything other than Crowley’s loyal little shadow, trailing after him wherever he might go.

He gripped Crowley’s hand tighter, realised for the first time that day how mismatched the two of them must look. He was wearing a _waistcoat_ for heaven’s sake and there his friends were, sunglasses in the midst of winter, enough leather for a biker gang, radiating an aura of nonchalant cool that only musicians could seem to conjure up.

Then Lily slid her sunglasses back up to her forehead and Zira noticed thick puffs of skin underneath her eyes, realised that the faux-exhausted slump of her shoulders he’d assumed was an artfully affected pose was just exhaustion, plain and simple.

She spotted them then, elbowed Mick and reached past him to slap the back of Sammy’s hand, nodded across the road at Crowley, Zira and Barnaby. As they drew up alongside the table Lily glanced down at their clasped hands and cocked a perfectly arched eyebrow. Crowley raised their hands up above table level and gave the three of them a little wave, smiling shyly.

“All right? You all look like shit.”

Sammy and Mick grunted in reply, though Mick’s response could have been a snore, it wasn’t clear whether or not he was actually awake. Of the three of them, Lily seemed the most spritely, though that may have been delirium brought about by another opportunity to tease Crowley.

“You brought your hubby!”

“Can you _stop_ calling him that?” Crowley hissed, reaching down to loop Barnaby’s lead around the table leg.

“And miss your sweet little face getting so frantic? Never.” She stretched forward to kiss him on the cheek, wiped away the smear of orange lipstick she left in her wake before he could complain. “Happy new year, Little Brother.”

As she leaned in to press an identical kiss to Zira’s cheek, Sammy sat back and gestured to two empty chairs in front of them.

“I would say sit down but it doesn’t look like your jeans will let you.”

“And here I was thinking a new year meant you’d get some new material.” Crowley shot Sammy a smile of satisfaction as he pulled a chair out from under the table. _Ha, one-nil._

“The only things that need new material are your ridiculous limbs. Sit down, lover boy, there’s gossip to be had.”

Admitting gracious defeat, if only because Zira’s hand was still firmly gripped in his and he was feeling too giddy with happiness to put up much of a fight, Crowley took his seat and reached down to ruffle Barnaby behind the ears. The big dog looked up at him, offered a gentle lick of gratitude for the ear ruffle, then turned in a tight circle and curled up next to his chair.

“At the risk of throwing up, I need to give a very brave boy a very big hug.” Sammy paused to hold a hand in front of his mouth, which might have been for dramatic effect, although he _was_ looking a little clammy in the forehead area, then clambered carefully out of his chair and knelt down next to Barnaby. “How are you, mate, feeling better?”

Barnaby answered by depositing his heavy snout on the knee of Sammy’s jeans and looking up at him with liquid brown eyes, widened just enough to reinforce that he had, in fact, been a very brave boy indeed.

After Barnaby had finished receiving strokes from his adoring audience, the five of them ordered enough food and drinks for twice their number, as was customary for brunch, and turned their attention to the most important matter at hand: gossip about the night before.

“Don’t you two look fresh-faced?” Lily leaned forward, elbows resting against the table as her dark eyes darted between them. “Romantic evening in, was it?”

Crowley cast a sidelong glance at Zira, found the bookseller looking back at him, a smile winding its way across his face. _God, you’re gorgeous._

“Something like that,” they said in unison, fingers entwining under the table, their hands coming to rest on top of Crowley’s knee.

“Straight to sleep after midnight?” Lily asked, batting curled lashes once, twice, three times.

“Something like that.” Zira laughed, stomach tightening at the flash of a memory of Crowley moaning softly into the darkness, the feeling of a hand twisting in his hair so tightly it would have been painful in any other situation.

“I couldn’t help but notice you didn’t order a side, Zira.” Mick spoke then for the first time since he’d greeted them, his voice thick with the flush of a hangover but steady enough that Zira felt himself growing nervous. Was there some kind of etiquette to brunch that had passed him by? Was anything less than two plates considered offensive? Before he had time to panic, Mick continued. “Still full from last night, I take it? Looks like you got a bit peckish.”

Zira looked across at Crowley, found him looking just as confused as he felt himself. Crowley raised an eyebrow, leaning back in his chair. “What are you rambling about, you old codger? Stop interrogating my man. Still drunk from last night?”

“Yes.” Lily darted in before Mick had a chance to respond.

“Well, yes.” He paused to give Lily a pointed look that never quite made it beyond a smile, before nodding towards Crowley’s neck. “But my point still stands. Animals, the both of you, match made in heaven.”

As Crowley and Zira looked at each other, utterly lost, Sammy slammed both hands against the table with barely contained glee. Hangover be damned, _this_ was the gossip that brunches were made for.

Crowley sighed impatiently, rolling his eyes as realisation dawned on him. “Oh, have you been talking to Tracy? _Hilarious_. You almost got me. The old ‘pretend Crowley has a hickey’ routine. Grow up, you guys.”

Mick stared back at him, shrugging his shoulders and turning his attention back to his full English, the plate overflowing with salty bacon, crispy-skinned sausages and thick toast that was all but swimming in butter. Opposite them, Lily snorted in laughter as she craned her neck to get a closer look at Crowley, eyes positively sparkling when she found what she was looking for.

Crowley tutted, switched his focus to his breakfast, refusing to yield to their childish games. Then he felt Zira reach up and press against the sweep of skin where his neck met his shoulder. “Ow, _hey_!”

Lily rolled her eyes, dug through her bag and wordlessly handed him a pocket mirror. He held it up, heard the others dissolve into laughter as he caught sight of the purple bruise of teeth peeking out from the neckline of his jumper.

“Oh, oh for god’s sake, angel.” He attempted to muster up the frustration to aim a glare in Zira’s direction but the recollection of feeling of Zira’s teeth against his skin as he shook underneath his touch was too sweet for him to care about something as petty as love bites. He dropped his voice then, leaned closer to the bookseller. “Lucky they can’t see my back, eh?”

“In my defence…” Zira fell silent for a moment. It was all well and good joking about taking a bite out of Crowley in front of his friends but in front of Mick? That felt like a different kettle of fish. Still, it was a new year, a new year of being brave. “If you will look like _that_ how am I supposed to-”

He never got to finish his sentence as Crowley cut him off with a kiss, laughing against his lips before kissing him again, one hand sliding up into his hair, curling around the roots of it tightly enough that Zira felt a twinge in his heart.

“I think I speak for everybody in attendance when I say that this would be incredibly grating if you two weren’t so bloody sweet.” Lily sighed through a mouthful of pancakes, though her words fell on deaf ears as Crowley leaned in for one more kiss. And then just one more.

***

“_Like a bat out of hell, I’ll be gone when the morning comes…_”

The strangled wail of Mick’s drunken warble radiated out from Lily’s phone as she held the device still in the middle of the table, swiping the volume up so none of them would miss a single note under the sound of their own laughter.

“That’s a _real_ voice,” Mick protested, holding both hands out towards the phone screen, where his inebriated self was strutting across the stage of the Devil’s Den, karaoke microphone gripped in one hand as he strummed an imaginary guitar with the other. “None of this autotune that you youths are so obsessed with. You wouldn’t know talent if it kicked you in the face.”

“It almost _did_ kick me in the face.” Sammy pointed out, elbowing the big man next to him as a reminder. “Why you thought a karate kick belonged in the middle of Don’t Stop Believing, I’ll never know.”

“It was a wonder to behold,” Lily giggled, as Mick did his best to eat his toast with a straight face. “They only ran the karaoke for two hours. Guess who hogged the mic for an hour of it?”

“Felt like I was back at Glastonbury.” Mick smiled dreamily, before grimacing down at the phone as his past self missed the high note in the harmony of Somebody To Love.

“Yes,” Lily said, before Crowley had time to ask the question. “He insisted on singing lead vocals _and_ the harmonies. Thought he was going to keel over by the end.”

As the conversation turned from Mick’s headline karaoke slot to Sammy’s increasingly desperate attempts to score a midnight kiss, Zira sat back and watched the four of them pile on top of each other without pausing for breath, insults traded back and forth as if it was a sporting event. Spending time with Crowley and his friends had always felt a little bit like watching a tennis match where he hovered on the edge of the court. That morning, though emboldened by his new status, he felt brave enough to take a step inside the lines and get a couple of shots in himself. When he airily brought up Sammy’s legendary humiliation at speed dating and the other three descended into raucous laughter, he caught Sammy giving him a little impressed smile. _Go ahead_, it seemed to say, _you’re one of us now._

It helped, of course, that Crowley’s hand had been curled around his thigh since their food had arrived. It had taken him a great deal longer than usual to inhale his customary scrambled eggs on toast when he was attempting to eat them one-handed but the idea of his hand breaking contact with Zira’s body was something he refused to consider.

By the time a stack of empty plates was towering in the centre of the table and Lily and Sammy were looking decidedly more healthy (Mick, it seemed, was only going to be brought back to life after a nap that would stretch all the way until the next morning), the conversation turned to the band’s upcoming gig.

“You’ll be coming, won’t you?” Lily asked Zira, draining the last of her smoothie. “Have fun fighting off this one’s groupies.”

“They’re not _groupies_, Lily, for heaven’s sake.”

“Well, whatever.” She rolled her eyes, turned her attention back to Zira. “Keep an eye on them, they’ll tear you apart if they get wind you’re sleeping with their main man.”

“Ignore her.” Crowley squeezed his thigh. “They’re fine, just a bit enthusiastic.”

“Enthusiastic? They followed you home and hung a bra off of your wing mirror.” Sammy laughed, remembering Crowley’s frantic phone call after he’d made the discovery late one night.

“Can we talk about something other than my groupies, please?” Crowley asked, before realising his mistake. “_Not_ groupies. Fans. I don’t know. Leave me alone. You’ll be fine, angel.”

“Don’t worry, my boy.” Mick reached over to clap Zira on the shoulder. “I’ll be there, you just stick with me.”

Zira thought back to the two girls he had spotted on the night he’d been to see Lucifer and the Guys performing, the way their eyes had followed Crowley as he’d made his way from the stage door through the crowd towards him. He swallowed tightly, wondering what the punishment was for sleeping with the sexy guitarist with the snake hips and the cheekbones and the talented hands. _If only they knew_, he thought_, they have no idea what those hands are capable of…_

“All right,” Crowley said finally, pushing up out of his chair with one hand as the other reached down for Zira’s. “You’ve got your gossip, I’ll see you in a fortnight. Mick, are you all right to get home in your state? I can call you a cab if your knees can’t face the walk.”

“Cheeky git.” Mick cuffed him on the shoulder, then brought a hand up to rest against his hair for a moment. “Go on, get out of here, be happy. It’s about time.”

Next to them, Sammy was looking at Zira as if he couldn’t believe his audacity. “Look what you’ve done. You’ve made him…happy. Now who are we going to embarrass?”

Lily looked him up and down as if an idea had only just occurred to her. “Well, you _are_ the next youngest, postboy.”

As they walked off down the street, back towards the bookshop, a dog walker and a bookseller turned back as they heard somebody calling after them.

“Congratulations on your upcoming nuptials, hubbies!”

Crowley sighed with affection and flicked Lily the middle finger before wrapping an arm around Zira’s neck, leaning over to kiss his hair as they strolled away.

“Now what, angel?” he asked, glancing down at his watch and relishing the notion of an entire afternoon and evening with nothing to do but curl up around, on top of, or underneath Zira. He wasn’t fussy.

Zira slid an arm around his waist, smiling up at him. “Whatever we want.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Happy Tuesday, my favourite celestial entities! I hope you're all having a wonderful week so far, what have you all been up to?
> 
> Hope you enjoyed brunch! The next chapter is coming on Friday.
> 
> Also, shoutout to lovely Viatta for putting this chapter’s song (by Mika <3) on my radar as an INEFFABLE TUNE - it fits *rather* perfectly so thank youuu, love <3
> 
> Thank you all for your comments and thirst-inducing gifs on the last chapter, I don't believe I'll ever truly recover from that Michael Sheen winking gif (lol almost made the best typo there) but I'm at peace with it.
> 
> <3


	22. I'll Hold My Breath

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> All thoughts of pretending to discipline Barnaby were forgotten as his phone buzzed to life in his other hand and he felt that familiar jolt of energy when he saw Zira’s name on the screen.

**January. Z. Fell and Co., Soho.**

Zira slept soundly. He had slept soundly for every one of the eight nights that had passed so far that year, except for the nights he had spent with Crowley, where sleep was a commodity that neither party was very interested in indulging in. What did tired eyes and the inability to concentrate on work matter when your lips were bruised and the scent of the one you had woken up with lingered on your skin?

Though Zira’s mind was peacefully dormant for the night as he curled against the sheets and flipped his pillow over to avoid the trail of drool that had escaped his lips, there was a second, secret occupant of the bookshop who was doing what any celestial being hitching a ride in a human vessel should be doing: pining. After all, why change the habit of a very, very long lifetime?

Aziraphale sighed. Well, it was more of an imagined sigh given that he wasn’t in control of a pair of lips with which to sigh, but the intention was there all the same. He was thinking, as he so often was, of Crowley. What else was there to think about? Crepes. And wine. And sushi. And those little overpriced cakes from the cafe around the corner that Zira was maddeningly not a fan of. But ahead of that, more important than any perfectly formed little overpriced cake, was Crowley.

While Zira’s mind was a comfortable enough space to exist in, aside from the barrage of self-doubt that never seemed to cease, it was an exquisitely cruel prison to be trapped inside. To be able to see Crowley, to hear his voice but not reach out and touch him, to know that it was all an illusion, that every whispered word wasn’t _really_ coming from his lips, felt like a punishment worse than anything heaven could ever have dreamed up. He knew those lingering gazes and sweet kisses didn’t come from Crowley, just his image, knew that they weren’t for _him_ anyway, they were for Zira, but sometimes there would be a certain tilt of the head or an aggravating smile that left him breathless, as if something had torn his lungs from his chest. His imagined chest, of course. Six thousand years of becoming accustomed to having a physical presence; god, it was frustrating being nothing but a soul.

_If only I could speak to him_, the angel thought, pondering the myriad ways he might find a way to be with Crowley again. There had been that flash on Halloween, just a moment, less than a moment, but it had been something. It had worked, at least, his plan. They had found their way back to each other. Almost, anyway. Just one last bridge to cross before paradise.

It hadn’t quite gone to plan…the whole idea of creating an entire world in the space of a few panicked seconds. When his Earthly existence had ended and he’d opened his eyes to find himself nowhere at all he hadn’t known how much time he had. After all, there wasn’t an angel or a demon alive who had returned to share stories of the _other side_. Well, there were two candidates who might fit the bill but Aziraphale had no intention of returning anywhere to share any stories, thank you very much. Heaven was quite dead to him. There was only sweet Raphael but…perhaps he would think of something. The portal. It was risky but, in time, there must be a way, just to let them know he and Crowley were safe. They could never go back, of course, Aziraphale wasn’t naive enough to believe Gabriel might just let their little escape mission go unpunished.

Sometimes, when Zira lay sleeping and Aziraphale had little to occupy his mind other than worries about how to keep Crowley safe, he would think back to just how careless they had been in the past, in the years when things had begun to escalate, when they had both known where their millennia long yearning was heading but were too afraid to do anything about it. Back then it had felt like he lived every day in heaven’s shadow, wringing his hands with the fear of being caught, but they had been so…stupid. Lunches at the Ritz, covert meetings in the park that were so suspiciously obvious that actual covert agents knew them well enough to place bets on the nature of their relationship, Crowley turning up to the bookshop unannounced just because he was bored and wanted someone to annoy. _Yes, well done us, _Aziraphale thought fondly, _so very subtle. How in the world did we get away with it for so long?_

How many hundreds of nights had they spent together in the shop with nothing but faint fear reminding them that what they were doing was wrong, was forbidden, for reasons that evaded both of them? Well. Not exactly. The reasons that it would be frowned on for an angel and a demon to be caught fraternising weren’t a huge mystery but just because they were aware of them didn’t mean they _understood_ them. Still, it had been easy enough, hadn’t it, to fly under the radar, to quietly fall deeper and deeper in love until not even the sentence of death was enough to tear them apart? And even that great threat of the end of everything hadn’t managed to come between them. _No_, Aziraphale thought with a proud imagined smile, _there is nothing in heaven or hell or any space in between that can keep us apart_. Except, of course, for a dog walker and a bookseller who had grown rather too fond of their own existence to give up control.

Aziraphale would think of something, he was confident enough, though he was hoping a stroke of genius would come to him soon as he really was getting desperate to be with Crowley again. For now, though, he had resigned himself to dreaming about the thousands of years of memories he could disappear into when he needed to wrap himself in something comfortable, something cherished. Some of his favourite escapes were to those nights they had spent in front of the fire in the shop, Crowley dizzy with wine and getting far too familiar, while he had to pretend he disapproved of the demonic…handsiness. Those were the nights where the mood would deepen in the early hours, when the fire would begin to die, Crowley would get that soft, wistful look in his eyes, and Aziraphale would thumb through a heavy book to find something, anything to read that might say the words he was too cowardly to put his own name to.

He could picture those nights so clearly, he could all but feel Crowley’s eyes on him, could hear the quiet rustle of pages as he flicked through whichever book he favoured that month, could smell the thick woody heat of smoke, the acrid tang of burning plastic and…

No.

It wasn’t a memory.

It was real. And it was close.

Zira woke to the sound of his own mind screaming at him to get up, blinked once, then immediately closed his eyes against the sting of…smoke? What? His brain felt like treacle, thoughts rolling thickly around his consciousness but failing to make much sense. _Fire? What are you talking about? _He had been so tired that evening, so many sleepless nights tangled up with Crowley taking their toll, knew he just needed one long, uninterrupted sleep to catch up and he’d be…

_Get. Up. You. Stupid. Man. Open your eyes!_

He palmed the heel of his hand to his eyes, squinted them open and felt that sting again, something hot and sharp. In his ears there was the piercing shriek of an alarm, the sort of generic wail that could have belonged to a burglar alarm down the street, a rogue car alarm set off by the wind, or a fire alarm in his own kitchen.

“Ah,” he hissed in a breath at the pain, felt something flood his lungs, heaved over and coughed on it until he felt like he was choking. Or drowning.

Zira had always been slow to wake, liked to snooze his alarm clock (gently, in light of all the robotic overlord jokes Crowley enjoyed teasing him with) once, twice, maybe even three times if one more little sleep took his fancy. He was not a man who could open his eyes and be ready to face the day. He hadn’t woken that night to face the day, though, he had woken to face thick tendrils of smoke pouring under his bedroom door and winding their way around him.

“Oh god,” he breathed, as disbelief gave way to primal, unadulterated terror.

Paralysis. That was the word. What Zira felt as he watched those curling fingers of smoke reach out towards him wasn’t just fear, or panic, it was something so deeply incomprehensible that he felt utterly frozen in place.

_I’m going to die. I’m going to die in here. If smoke is in here then I know what lays beyond that door._

_Nobody is dying tonight. Get up! Get out! Now!_

He grabbed blindly for his phone on the bedside table, tugging the collar of his pyjama shirt across his nose and mouth as he gasped for breath. No phone. Where was it? Where had he…? Under the pillow, of course. He unlocked the phone with a swipe, staggered to the windows and flung them open, leaning out to suck in lungfuls of clean, night time air. Smoke whipped out beside him and then there were no more fresh breaths, there was only the burning heat in the back of his throat every time he breathed in.

_I have to get out. I have to get help. _He thumbed 999 on the screen, was about to press _Call_ as he frantically tried to wave down a midnight passerby who had their head down, headphones in, failing to notice the man waving from the window with smoke pouring out around him. He could jump. No, it was too high. A broken leg, maybe a hip, but it was better than…

_What the hell are you doing, you foolish man? Call them afterwards. Just get out of there._

The air was thick and black, every breath was torture, stinging tears soaked into the collar of his shirt. His heart was nothing but a hammer behind his ribs, sweat dampened his neck as he turned to eye the bedroom door. _The only way out is down_.

As Zira made for the door and steeled himself for whatever chaos lay behind it, he reached down and wrapped a hand around the one thing he couldn’t bear to leave behind. And as he choked in one last breath and swung the door open to find the hallway hazy with the orange glow of an inferno licking its way out from the kitchen, there was only one sobering thought rocketing through Aziraphale’s mind.

_If the portal burns we are truly alone._

***

“This is the life,” Crowley said, as he sighed blissfully.

He stretched out one long leg and rested his calf on the coffee table, the other leg bent up next to him on the sofa. Barnaby lay sleepily against his bare chest; the dog’s left foreleg had been recently released from its cast and now boasted a rather impressive wound that was, mercifully, on the road to becoming a scar.

He was thumbing through a playlist on his phone with one hand, pausing on each song for long enough to sing a few lines and see if the lyrics spoke to him deeply enough to make it onto the setlist for the band’s upcoming gig. It was his turn to settle on the songs they’d be performing, a rare honour that he was infrequently trusted with after the Great Disney/Death Metal Mashup Debacle. _In my defence_, he had insisted, after Dan and Lily had vetoed every single one of his experimental suggestions, _I was just trying something different_.

His other hand was roaming blindly in a McDonalds bag in search of stray chips that had escaped their cardboard container. When he was lucky enough to come across one it would become a very important part of a game he had invented called _Catch the Chip_. The rules were simple. He would toss the chip up into the air and do his very best to catch it in his mouth. It wasn’t a complex game but it was fun nonetheless. It was the simple things.

“Shit,” he hissed, as the chip sailed an inch wide of his mouth and landed on his chest, where a little red patch had already bloomed on account of his terrible aim.

Oh well. It was one of the perks of living alone, he had always thought, the ability to be as gross as you wanted without judgement. If he wanted to spend a Thursday night in nothing but a pair of boxers that had seen better days, tossing chips into his mouth then that was his prerogative. It was the first night that week he’d spent apart from Zira and it was alarming how much he missed him. It had only been that morning he’d kissed him goodbye so why did it feel as though he might combust by the time they saw each other again the next evening? While shaking Zira from his mind was nigh on impossible, food was an adequate distraction. He reached out to pluck the stray chip off of his chest but found nothing there but a lick of drool and an unrepentant shepherd dog who refused to meet his gaze.

“Barnaby?” he asked, fighting to keep a smile out of his voice. Barnaby’s tail began to thump against the sofa cushions. “Did you eat the-”

_Bzzzt. Bzzzt._

All thoughts of pretending to discipline Barnaby were forgotten as his phone buzzed to life in his other hand and he felt that familiar jolt of energy when he saw Zira’s name on the screen. They had made plans for the next evening, vague notions of watching a film on the sofa, though neither could really commit to the pretence that they’d do anything other than watch the opening five minutes before someone’s hand would creep onto someone’s thigh and the bedroom door would be slammed approximately half a second later, with Barnaby sulking on the opposite side of it.

_Can’t keep away for one night, eh? _Crowley thought to himself, as he jabbed a greasy finger against the screen to answer the call and held the phone up to his ear. “If it isn’t my wicked little…”

“Crowley…?”

Something was wrong.

He sat up, cradling a hand behind Barnaby’s head to stop the dog sliding off of him. He could hear chaos in the background, sirens and shouting and, closer than all of it, Zira’s voice sounding desperate and lost.

“Crowley, the shop…”

“Are you okay?” he asked, as a white hot prickle of dread began to wrap itself around his shoulders.

_Get up. Now. Go._

The voice flared to life, rising up out of nowhere with thoughts so urgent and staccato it was as if it didn’t have time to think in full sentences. While Crowley’s natural response was to argue back and stubbornly do the opposite of whatever it suggested, there was something about its hissed insistence that scared him into action before Zira had even had a chance to respond.

“Angel?” He slid out from underneath Barnaby, gave the dog one rushed pat and grabbed for his panda toy, which he helpfully laid next to him on the sofa. “Are you okay? I'm on my way.”

He was halfway down the first flight of stairs before he heard Zira’s response.

***

_Something’s wrong, I can feel it. You have to get to him. Drive faster._

_I can’t do ninety miles an hour in central London. Speed limits. I’ve already got three points._

_Fuck speed limits. Get there faster._

_Look, calm down, he said he was okay. Remember the flood? He probably just overfilled the bath again._

_This is different, I can feel it. If anything happens to him…not now, not after everything. Please just get to him. Please._

Crowley curled his fingers around the steering wheel, pressed a little harder on the accelerator and prayed that he wouldn’t speed past a police car. It was thankfully quiet on the roads, on account of the late hour, but the voice in his head was frantic, barely quietening even for a second, urging him to _drive faster, get there faster, get to him, faster, faster, faster, please_.

By the time they approached Greek Street he was ready to slam on the breaks, fold his arms and refuse to drive another metre until it shut up and stopped backseat driving. Backseat brain driving, really. Zira had _said_ he was fine, he’d sounded shaken up, yes, but had told Crowley not to worry, had…

He really did slam on the breaks then, as he approached the corner to find blue flashing lights bouncing off of the buildings where a crowd of people stretched across the road, gathered behind a police cordon. Inside the car, Crowley’s heart began to pound.

He slammed the door behind him, car abandoned in the middle of the road, broke into a run until he reached the back of the crowd and craned his neck up to see what they were staring at.

Smoke.

The sky above Greek Street was thick with it, the steady rumble of a wild blaze undercut with the cracking of wood, the smashing of glass.

“No,” he whispered, then turned to the man next to him. “What’s happening?”

“It’s on fire, the bookshop, they think it-”

Crowley didn’t hear the end of his sentence, was already pushing his way through the crowd, fighting his way to the front of the group of people who had been drawn to the sirens, to the irresistible call of observing somebody else’s life falling apart right in front of them.

It rose into view then, perched on the corner of the street as it always had been, Zira’s pride and joy, engulfed in flames. Firemen aimed thick hoses at the top windows, rising up like cobras in the night, roaring out steady streams of water that did nothing to calm the blaze. The shop doors were flung open, windows smashed on every floor, and Crowley stopped in horror as he saw the fire bursting out of the windows he had looked out of that very morning after waking up in Zira’s bed.

“Zira?” he cried, ducking under the cordon and lurching forward, stumbling closer, one arm up against his mouth as he the smoke hit him. “Zira!”

“Oi, get back! Get back now!” A policeman strode out from the pavement, raised a hand in warning as he waved Crowley back from the building. He reached him, palmed a hand to his chest, his voice rising in warning. “Get back, it’s not safe.”

“I have to get through, get off me. Is he out? Did they get him out?” Crowley shrugged him away, ducked under his arm before he had a chance to respond.

“Crowley?”

He turned then, saw Zira standing there between a fire engine and an ambulance, golden and broken in the firelight. Soot stained his cheeks and darkened the tips of his hair, his pale skin visible under the tracks of tears cutting through the grime on his face. A blanket was wrapped around his shoulders and despite the overwhelming heat radiating from the fire, he was shivering.

“Oh, thank god.” Crowley ran to him, wrapped his arms around his trembling shoulders and pulled him close. He felt him freeze for just a second before he went soft, falling against him, burying his head in Crowley’s shoulder.

When they pulled apart the soot was smudged on his skin and Zira winced, reaching out for the shoulder of Crowley’s t-shirt. Crowley wiped the damp soot away from his cheeks, held his face in his hands and tried to think of anything to say.

“My whole world was in there,” Zira said finally. His voice shook with every word.

In the end Crowley said nothing because sometimes there are no words to say. All he could do was stand next to Zira and wrap his arms around him, rest his chin against his hair, as they were powerless to do anything other than watch Z. Fell and Co. burn to the ground.

***

“Honestly, I’m quite all right.”

Crowley stopped outside the room, smiled to himself as he heard Zira insist, incredibly politely, that he was absolutely fine and there was no need for anybody to waste any more of their time. If they would all stop fussing he was quite happy to go… He fell silent then, and outside in the corridor Crowley’s heart sank as reality set in. Zira couldn’t _go_ home. Three hours ago they’d stood helplessly in front of it as it had burned.

“Tea.” Crowley announced his presence then, nudged the door open wider with his hip and settled down in the chair next to the bed that Zira was refusing to lay down on. He’d sat up since they’d arrived, protesting the entire affair as a waste of time.

“Look at me,” he’d said, and the nurse had done just that, her eyes meeting Crowley’s a flash later as they both ascertained that he was not, by any stretch of the imagination, fine. “I’m absolutely hunkydory.”

He’d been coughing since Crowley had managed to usher him away from the shop, had helped him get into the car after the paramedics had agreed not to escort him themselves, providing Crowley took him straight to A&E. He’d remained silent for the drive, had stared out of the window at the passing streets, only looking away to try and stifle a series of coughs.

There had been a two hour wait, during which Zira had rested his head against Crowley’s shoulder and stared down at the floor, tracing the pattern of the tiles again and again until he could have drawn them from memory. Crowley had wrapped an arm around him, drawn circles against his upper arm with his thumb while he’d held his phone out of Zira’s view, reading checklists about what to do after a fire. _There’ll be so much paperwork, _he thought, glancing down at Zira, _he’ll drown in it. Please, angel, please have insurance, please don’t say the forms were too complicated._

Zira’s name had been called, finally, and he’d turned to Crowley, asked him quietly if he’d come with him, before they’d both followed a nurse down the corridor to the waiting consultation room.

Smoke inhalation, shock, skin complaints, eye irritation; the nurse had methodically worked through every item on the list, asking Zira question after question in that patient, efficient voice that couldn’t help but make you feel as though you were in safe hands, even if you’d just watched your only home destroy itself from the inside out.

“I’m happy for you to leave tonight, Mr Fell,” she said, as Crowley passed the plastic cup of tea to Zira, who gulped it down as if it would do anything to purge the taste of smoke from his tongue. “But if that cough is still bothering you after the weekend I want you to promise me you’ll make an appointment with your GP.”

“Absolutely.” Zira’s voice was chipper to the point that nobody in the room believed him, so the nurse turned her attention to Crowley.

“Yes.” Crowley nodded, and they shared a small smile of solidarity. “I’ll take him if it carries on like this.”

“And you, sir, were you inside?”

“No.” Crowley shook his head, bringing the back of one hand up to his mouth as he stifled a yawn. “No, I wasn’t there.”

“Your boyfriend was lucky,” she said, dropping her voice as Zira swung both legs off of the bed and hopped down. It was the first time Crowley had realised he was barefoot, felt a pang in his chest as he thought back to the wet pavements outside. “You might notice…in the coming weeks, emotional shock, it can be delayed.”

“Thank you,” Crowley mouthed and she gave him a tight little nod, before turning her attention back to Zira, telling him to take it easy, to take it slow and to look after himself.

They walked back through the labyrinth of corridors in silence, Zira’s face alarmingly neutral in expression. After his shockingly upbeat attitude in the consultation room Crowley had begun to think he was devoid of feeling anything at all, until he felt Zira’s fingers curl tightly around his, clinging onto his hand as if it was the only thing holding him together. When he looked across at him he found Zira’s mouth set in a grim line, saw him swallow twice in quick succession, noticed that telltale slew of too-quick blinks.

“Raphael’s book,” Zira said blankly, as they waited for the lift. “He lent me his copy of Candide. I didn’t have time to get it.”

“I think he’ll understand.” Crowley squeezed his hand once, twice. Then, as the lift doors closed he looked down at Zira’s feet. “Do you want my shoes?”

***

It was a shade past four in the morning when they finally made it back to the flat, the sound of Barnaby’s limping footsteps ehcoing out from under the door as Crowley turned his key in the lock.

“Hi, boy.” Crowley smiled down at him, clicked his fingers and pointed over to his bed. “Leave him alone, come on. Go to your bed.”

He’d barely finished his sentence before Zira had crouched down on the floor and buried a hand in the thick fur on Barnaby’s back. He was a little thinner in the fur department post-accident but his back half had escaped the clutches of the vet’s clippers relatively unscathed. Barnaby treated him to a long lick from jaw to forehead, couldn’t conceive why the usually jolly human seemed so sad, but knew a good dose of canine slobber would likely help.

Crowley pressed the door closed behind them, sighed out a deep yawn, and then turned back to Zira, reaching out to stroke the back of his hand with his thumb. “I’ll get the shower running, make it nice and warm.”

As Zira disappeared into the bathroom and Crowley heard the sound of two feet stepping heavily into the shower, he sank down on the sofa and thought back to how utterly calm Zira had been when he’d come to his rescue in the vet clinic that day in December. He had known every little thing to do to help make life easier, had known exactly what Crowley had needed to hear every step of the way. It was as if he’d read a manual somewhere: _How to Rescue a Dog Walker in Distress_. Now it was his turn to step up, to be the shoulder to cry on, to be the strong one.

On the day of Barnaby’s accident Crowley had been wracked with the fear of losing his world. But he hadn’t lost it, there had only been the idea of it, those few hours of deep, gut-wrenching anxiety that Barnaby might not make it through. It was only jeopardy though, wasn’t it, the possibility of loss? What Zira had gone through that night was concrete, absolute. It was the loss of everything. His entire world, as he’d said in his own words. Where Crowley was a man of memories, of experiences, Zira was a man of possessions, of the warm reassurance of _things_ to hold, to touch, to tether him to that safe nest he’d created in the shop. How, Crowley wondered, could he possibly help to repair everything that had been lost that night?

He noticed it then, wrapped up in the heavy blanket the paramedics had draped around Zira’s shoulders, laying in a heap on the corner of the sofa. A slim black hardback book. No title. No author’s name on the spine.

“Oh…” he trailed off, felt his breath catch as he reached out for it, ran a hand across the cover. The book he had given him for Christmas. It was the only thing Zira had taken.

***

“I have to call the insurers.” Zira held a towel closed around his waist, followed Crowley into the bedroom as he pulled open a drawer and began rifling through it.

“We’ll do it in the morning,” he said, tossing the words over his shoulder as he tugged a t-shirt free and folded it over his arm. He delved into another drawer and reached for a pair of jogging bottoms, paint-stained but soft and comfortable. “Here.”

“I have to…”

Crowley put both hands on Zira’s shoulders, gently pushing him down until he was sitting on the edge of the bed. He sat down next to him, reached out to squeeze his thigh. “You have to sleep, angel. We’ll do everything else in the morning. For now, get some rest. Do you want tea?”

How strange, Crowley thought, to be doing something as mundane as boiling the kettle. It felt wrong that life continued in its steady way, that small comforts like a warm mug between your hands were in any way adequate after what had happened that night. He had stood there and watched the shop burn but it felt like something imaginary, something too life-changing to have really happened. It was as if they’d wake up in the morning and he could drive Zira back to Soho as if nothing had happened, as if they’d find the shop standing there, miraculously right as rain, every book unburned.

He heard heavy footsteps then, looked up to find Zira padding into the kitchen, that same faraway look as if he too couldn’t quite fathom what had happened. Zira hadn’t just _seen_ the shop burn, he had been inside it, had choked on the smoke, had escaped with nothing but mild smoke inhalation and a streak of a burn on his right forearm. It might not even leave a scar. Not a physical one.

Crowley smiled, despite himself. It was impossible not to as Zira stood there, wet-haired and sleepy-eyed in black jogging bottoms and a faded old Pixies t-shirt, looking very much like he’d just been subjected to a makeover to become the fifth member of the band. _Don’t even think about it, not now, _Crowley thought, ignoring the feeling of his jeans growing just that much tighter. _I’m going straight to hell._

“This can’t be real,” Zira murmured, shaking away the vision of flames bursting out from his bedroom windows. “This can’t be…what am I going to do? Crowley, how am I supposed to…everything I had was in there.”

“Tomorrow, I promise, we’ll work through this. Together.”

Zira leaned back against the worktop, one hand pressed against the wood of the kitchen cabinet, the other wrapped around his mug of tea. He took a drink. “I…I’m sorry for calling you, for assuming I could stay here. I’ll call Raphael tomorrow, the flat they’re renting during the renovation has a second…”

“Angel, stop.” Crowley closed the gap between them, slid both arms around Zira’s neck, pressed a kiss to his lips. “You’re staying here. As long as you need, until every brick of the shop has been rebuilt, until every book is back on the shelves.”

Zira had always prided himself on being self-sufficient. It was a mark of success, he reasoned, to be able to stand on one’s own two feet without needing help from others. It showed strength of character, resilience. But on that night when he lost everything, as the threat of drowning under the crushing knowledge that life would never be the same hung over him, he realised that, perhaps, accepting help wasn’t weakness. Perhaps it was strength.

***

As the clock struck five a.m. and the flat was filled with nothing but the sound of the steady inhale and exhale of sleepy breaths, Crowley opened his eyes. A heartbeat later, another pair opened just a fraction in front of his own.

“Angel?” he mouthed.

A smile in response, but there was a sadness there, as if he couldn’t decide whether he was overjoyed or bereft. “Crowley.”

The word came out as a sigh so deeply filled with longing that Crowley didn’t need to wonder. He knew. Two pairs of eyes staring at each other in the darkness. A heartbeat of nothing but relief, of _finally, even if it’s only for a moment_.

What to say? What to say after so long, after so many days and nights spent pondering every possibility, every wild declaration of devotion and…

“I love you.”

There it was. The essence of everything they were, everything they always had been. What wild declaration could stand for more than three simple words said aloud? An honour to speak them, a greater one to receive them.

“And I love you, my love.”

A laugh. _That _laugh. Enough to leave the heart racing, fingers twitching with the desperate need to reach out, to touch, to hold.

He stretched out a hand, froze a flicker from Aziraphale’s face as the angel shook his head.

“It’ll wake them.”

“I’m so sorry. The shop.”

It wasn’t Aziraphale’s shop any more, not really, but it didn’t matter. It was the closest thing they had to home in that world, aside from each other. While the shop was Zira’s retreat, it had always been Aziraphale’s heart, a haven for both of them when nowhere else on Earth felt safe.

It was the second time Crowley had watched the bookshop burn. The first time he had been willing enough to lay there and let the fire take him too, if only it could have. As it turned out, drinking himself to discorporation had felt like the better option. Only, that couldn’t take him either. The only thing that _could_ end him, it had turned out, was his determination to love Aziraphale the only way he knew how: recklessly, eternally.

“It was all he had,” Aziraphale whispered in a small voice, the residue of Zira’s grief bleeding into him. It was impossible, it seemed, to exist so utterly entwined with another soul and not share their burdens, their joys, their heartbreak. “The portal too, I fear. There’ll be no way back now.”

“Couldn’t you have…?”

The corners of Aziraphale’s lips quirked down as he sighed. “I couldn’t. I had to just...watch it. Like he did. They’d find us, my love, if we intervened. It would be like a smoke signal. I won’t risk you, Crowley, not for anything, I told you that.”

Then, to Aziraphale’s astonishment and mild irritation, Crowley laughed. “Bit soon, isn’t it, angel?”

“I don’t know what on earth you mean.”

Crowley raised an eyebrow, smiled at him with such fondness that Aziraphale had to close his eyes to keep that last shred of self-control in tact. “Smoke signal. Burning bookshop. Don’t tell me that wasn’t intentional.”

Aziraphale tutted, gave Crowley the sort of disapproving scowl the demon had spent the last five months dreaming of. “Honestly, Crowley.”

They fell silent then, for a moment, let the weight of the months of separation breathe around them, let that tension and longing ebb away until there was only them, together, all but nose to nose under the blankets. So close. Maddeningly close. Just out of reach, as always, even then.

“Like being in a cage, isn’t it? Nothing but an observer. Torture. When Barnaby…there was nothing I could do. I could have fixed it, I could have taken it away, the pain, for both of them. I had to listen to it, every thought, all the guilt, the bargaining, the desperation. It was like…looking at all of the darkest parts of myself.”

“All I did was trade one set of bars for another. I didn’t save us. I imprisoned us.”

Those eyes looking back at him, a tropical storm, a hurricane of blue, a tsunami of guilt. “No, angel, you set us free. You brought us here.”

“It wasn’t supposed to be like this.” A fist balled under the sheet, a tongue pressed against teeth. He could have screamed with the frustration of it. _So stupid, you didn’t think, look what you’ve done to yourselves, to him._

“We can wait.” Crowley smiled at him, would have brought a hand to rest against his, if he could, would have kissed away his anger, his frustration, if only he could. But all he could do was smile, to nod, to tell him _I’ll wait for you, angel, for as long as it takes._

“We weren’t supposed to end up like this. _Stuck_ like this.”

“We can wait, Aziraphale.”

“I told you I’d never make you wait again. I’ve been thinking, had rather a lot of time for it, what if we-”

Crowley shook his head, thought of their two human counterparts, of what they’d found in each other. Theirs was a mundane salvation, but why did that make it any less important than what he and Aziraphale were chasing after? “Not right away, angel. Let’s give them what we never had. Let’s give them some time.”

Aziraphale swallowed, breathed out a little laugh that wavered as he steadied himself, looking at Crowley as if he had never loved him more deeply. “You truly are the worst demon hell has ever seen."

“Too good for hell.”

“Too good for heaven, come to that.”

Heaven. It was strange, Crowley realised, how little thought he had given to heaven or hell, or even Earth, since they’d left. Those untold years spent resenting heaven, bending to hell’s will and, yet, it had been so easy to forget them. To forget all of it. The past had finally become just that, perhaps. It was the future that occupied his thoughts, all of the things he yearned for, that he would do again, soon enough.

“I miss having a body, I miss _walking._”

“I miss eating,” Aziraphale said, his voice so full of pitiful sorrow that Crowley leaned forward to kiss him, an instinct that felt impossible to override. He stopped, just, his lips a fraction from the angel’s. One movement, one breath, that’s all it would take.

“As soon as we figure this out I’ll take you to every sushi restaurant in Soho, I promise. I hear there are quite a few of them now.”

“Business is booming, so they say.” The angel grinned, a little spark of delight at the minute successes of his own creation. “I’ll take you to every wine bar, every vintage car garage, every beautiful garden. And then?”

“The park,” they said, together. It was where their fantasies had always ended. Somewhere outdoors, somewhere free with nothing but the sky above them.

Aziraphale brought his hand up until his palm was facing Crowley’s, their fingertips almost touching. They were two lovers in the darkness, a shard of glass between them. Anything to prolong the moment, to give them time, the one thing they had always had too much and too little of all at once.

“Well, this feels alarmingly familiar.” Crowley broke the silence, bandaging the longing with a joke. Old habits. Hard to shake off, it turned out.

“A fantasy by moonlight? Fighting every impulse I have not to kiss you? What in the world could you be referring to?”

It was simpler, of course, to meet Crowley’s joke with one of his own. Easier to find the twisted humour than ruminate on the tragedy of their situation. Millennia of longing, of the promise of _someday, _of _the future_, of dream lives whispered into being beneath the safety of darkness, and where had it taken them? To waiting. Waiting, always waiting.

When Aziraphale spoke again his voice was quietly judgemental. “Took them long enough to get it together, didn’t it?”

The look Crowley gave him was equal parts incredulous and furious. His eyes, though human, were every inch the fiery pools that had ensnared Aziraphale from first glance. There was, in that glare, every shred of the demonic that Crowley had become over the years. But to Aziraphale it was just _his Crowley having a sulk, _something akin to a dog owner telling a terrified passerby that their snarling hound_ wouldn’t ever bite you, he’s a softie really_.

The angel laughed, chastising himself before Crowley had the chance. “Yes, I know, how dare I? Six thousand years. How did you do it? How did you wait?”

Crowley looked down at his fingernails, voice airy as he bit back a smile. “Slim pickings in the old pool of celestial prospects on Earth. Who else was I going to wait for? It was you or nothing.”

Aziraphale gasped in mock-offence, raised a hand to gently slap the demon’s arm, stopped a hair’s breadth away.

“Go on,” Crowley breathed, shifting forwards slowly, slowly, until he was whispering the words against Aziraphale’s lips. It would wake them, he knew that, when they finally touched, but restraint had never been his strong suit. “I dare you. Tempted?”

Aziraphale stared back at him, unblinking.“I rather think that’s how we found ourselves here.”

There was an almost imperceptible shift of his hips but it was enough. Crowley felt the angel’s weight against him, bit down on his lip as Aziraphale spoke again, voice low with the knowledge that when they finally gave in it would mean goodbye. For now, at least.

“I love you, Crowley, I will figure this out, I swear to you. I love you, I love you, please don’t give up on me.”

“Never.”

“We’ll only have a moment.”

“Then make it count, angel.”

The last thing Crowley felt was the sweet crush of lips against his, fingers in his hair, a palm against his chest, warm skin against skin. The last thing Aziraphale heard was Crowley telling him he loved him, that there would be another night soon, to be patient. And then they were gone and there was only a dog walker and a bookseller clinging onto each other in the darkness as they slept.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Well, well, well, if it isn't the end of Part II Act II. Season finale, if you'll indulge me :D
> 
> Part II Act III will be kicking off here on Sunday and I can't wait to get started on this section! Coming up we have...groupies, a road trip, the strength of chosen family, and pancakes <3
> 
> The Part II playlist has been updated here (I could write a full thesis on how this chapter's song fits in with the story 😂): https://open.spotify.com/playlist/4TndXiAWyel8ZctAACYZE6
> 
> I hope you've all had a lovely week and have lots of fun weekend plans, what are you all getting up to? I'm going to be making the most of the cosy weather with blankets, candles, all the carbs, and planting up my garden ready for spring - yes, there *is* a Good Omens-themed tulip display in the works because the extra life chose me.


	23. Way Down We Go

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “I’ve never done this before.” Zira huffed, loudly typing in his e-mail address with nothing but his index fingers.

**Beelzebub’s Office, Hell.**

Beelzebub looked up at the ceiling of their office, spat out a fly as they smiled. The millennia-long dripping of brown water had stopped. Hell’s contribution to the Tribulation, the Burning, had impacted more than just the Earth, it seemed.

It had been sent by Satan himself, released from fiery fingertips to spread across the globe, to burn the forests to ash. Displacement, fear, panic, confusion. It was all part of the plan. The Final Plan, Beelzebub had taken to calling it. After all, what could come after the End Times?

The fire had done its worst, a hellish response to heaven’s Great Flood. Two tests of the Tribulation neatly crossed off. Time was ticking on and there was so very little of it left until the armies of hell would be summoned for the final war.

“Dagon,” Beelzebub snapped, rising from their desk until they saw that straight-backed, severe silhouette distorted behind the glass of their office door.

Dagon entered, dripping water from their shrivelled fingertips, that noxious briny scent rolling off of them in thick waves. Polluted oceans. Dead things. They sat down opposite Beelzebub, two thick lips curling up into a smirk. “You wanted to see me, my lord?”

“After all of these years.” Beelzebub’s voice sounded strange, a foreign lightness nestled there between the words. It was happy.

Dagon nodded. “The time is almost upon us. Again.”

“There will be nothing to stop us this time. No…divine interruptions. The troops, are they ready?”

Dagon shuffled the papers they held in their damp hands, clammy fingers smudging the ink as they swept a pruned thumb across the first page. They gave a brief, hesitant nod. “They are ready, Lord Beelzebub. But there are…certain names unaccounted for.”

Dagon braced themselves for an onslaught of punishment, curled in on themselves as they thought of tight spaces, of locks and keys, of sharp things in the dark. But Beelzebub waved their confession away with a hand. “They will fall in line when the time comes. They don’t have a choice, do they, your darkness?”

In the dim light in Beelzebub’s office it was difficult to make out the shape that crawled out from the shadows. It was a hunched beast, knuckles grinding against the ground as it stalked forward on all fours, bent low like a predator. Dagon’s hands curled around the arms of their chair, fingers finding frayed fabric as they gripped on tight, tethering themselves to something other than the intoxicating pull towards that darkest of demons, hidden away in the pits of hell for so many thousands of years. Waiting, watching, forever patient.

In the unknowable pit that was Belial’s face, the demon smiled, a thick black tongue darting out to lick a blood-soaked feather from its chin. It had been too long since the last war, and Belial was hungry.

***

**January. Crowley’s Flat, London.**

Zira had always rolled his eyes at that romance novel image of waking up smiling, nestled in a safe pair of arms after a night of peaceful, dreamless slumber. That was until he had grown rather partial to waking up with his cheek on Crowley’s chest, one of the dog walker’s long, lean arms wrapped around his waist. Now the notion of romantic cliches felt warmly familiar, something he could smile and nod at, recognising himself in the idea of fairytale bliss. Would it ever stop being a thrill, to feel Crowley’s hand in his as they walked down the street, to reach out and kiss him whenever the mood took his fancy?

He smacked his lips together then, tongue running along the roof of his mouth as he grimaced. What was that godawful taste?

Smoke.

Oh.

That heartbeat of ignorant bliss was replaced with the grim reality of the night before. Of burning books and searing heat, the feeling of choking and drowning all at once, that heart-pounding panic of being surrounded by fire that wanted to do nothing but consume everything in its path. He remembered standing there in the street, lost, barefoot and shaking, watching his home crumble away into nothing but shards of wood and brick. Then the sound of Crowley’s voice, the flood of relief at a pair of arms to fall into, a safe place to show weakness, the surge of gratitude at having somebody to call when everything else was chaos.

_I have so much to do_, he thought, hoping if he kept his body still while his mind raced he could prolong the physical comfort of laying in Crowley’s arms for a little bit longer, could ignore reality for a few more moments. Cool sweat clung to his brow as the enormity of his situation began to slowly, terribly, hit home. _Everything will be different now. This is the next moment where my life splits into Before and After. What am I supposed to do next? Who do I need to speak to? The fire station, the police, a lawyer? How can I thank the firemen for what they did last night? I have to call my insurers. Can I go back there today? Do I need to ask anybody if it’s safe? Will there even be anything to go back and see? Oh god, I hope it didn’t spread. I have to apologise to the businesses next door. What’s an appropriate apology gift after almost burning down somebody’s place of work? Flowers? Crowley will know._

He pressed his chin to Crowley’s chest and gazed up at him, at how soundly he slept, the echo of a smile on his lips as his chest rose and fell, the swell of the tide. _Thank god I have you. _How could he even begin to repay everything Crowley had done for him in the hours since his world had burned? He had sat with him in the hospital for those long hours in the waiting room, had taken him in, clothed him, pacified him with tea, promised him a roof over his head for as long as he needed it. Eight days into a relationship and this had been foisted on him but he hadn’t panicked, he hadn’t run, he’d known exactly what Zira had needed, had calmly told him they would rebuild everything, brick by brick, until it was stronger than before.

Breakfast, Zira thought, would be a good start. Crowley always cooked for him, perhaps now he could start to repay the culinary debt. He untangled himself from Crowley’s arms, laid the duvet back across the dog walker’s chest and was pacing quietly around the bed when he felt a hand swing out to catch his. He looked around, found Crowley’s sleepy eyes half-closed as he looked up at him from the soft comfort of his pillow.

“Are you okay?” he asked, voice thick with the haze of hanging halfway between dreaming and waking.

Zira nodded, then stopped. _Don’t lie_, he thought to himself, _not to him_. “No. No, I’m afraid I’m not. But…breakfast, shall we start there?”

***

Crowley sat cross-legged on the bed, the edge of the duvet coiled under his calves as he balanced a plate of buttered toast between his knees. It was darker than he’d usually have it. Well, it was one shade lighter than crucified but Zira had looked so apologetic and forlorn when he’d presented him with the desecrated toast that he was powerless to do anything other than dig in with reckless abandon.

“Okay, let's make a plan,” he said, edging the plate onto the bedside table and pulling his laptop open, setting it between them on the bed.

It was a godsend, Zira quickly realised, letting Crowley steer him through the quagmire of rebuilding his life from the literal ashes. He was calm, methodical and had removed feeling from the equation, for then, at least. There would be time enough for tears and sleepless nights, for fits of anger and confusion and _why me_? That morning, though, Crowley ploughed through creating a to-do list as if he was working through a new web design project, letting logic override emotion for the time being, transforming the situation into work, rather than tragedy.

A rap at the door echoed around the flat and Barnaby sprang to life, shuffling from his bed to the door, where he pressed his nose against the crack where the wood met the floor and sniffed twice in quick succession before barking excitedly.

“Shit,” Crowley hissed, glancing down at his watch and scrambling off of the bed, pulling on a t-shirt as he made for the door. He swung it open, blocking Barnaby’s path with one leg, and then suddenly the flat seemed to shrink as two huge wolfhounds padded across the threshold, followed by a petite woman with a neat, heart-shaped face that Zira vaguely recognised. “Hi, Verity, come in, tea?”

“Better not, love, I’m already late. Thank you so much, you’re an angel.” She smiled, handing Crowley two thick leather leads and a canvas bag that radiated the smell of beef. The two large dogs sat obediently in the hallway, movements fluid and deliberate as they alternated between nosing the bag and casting disinterested glances in Barnaby’s direction as he sat clumsily between them, bright eyes endlessly enthusiastic as he tossed his panda toy in the air and let it fall to the ground at their paws. Crowley’s friend leaned in to give him a hug, catching sight of Zira as she pulled back. “Oh god, you’ve got company, why didn’t you tell me? Oh, we’ve met before, haven’t we? Lily’s party.”

_Ah, of course_. Zira nodded, raising a hand in greeting, remembering her face that much clearer when he pictured it in the context of her Halloween costume. “Princess Zelda, I believe.”

She turned back to Crowley, raising both eyebrows with a grin and giving his hand a little squeeze as she stepped back through the door. He swallowed a self-satisfied smile, called out a goodbye and swung the door closed, turning to face Zira with an apologetic look on his face. “I am so sorry, I completely forgot about this.”

The two dogs strutted forward in tandem, leaning down to sniff Barnaby before turning their attention to Zira, waltzing into the bedroom and hopping up onto the bed as if it was part of their very own kingdom. He felt wiry whiskers against his feet, a wet nose against his neck, looked down at two sets of wise brown eyes that looked back at him from underneath heavy grey tufts of hair. Zira assumed they weren’t supposed to have immediately made themselves at home on Crowley’s bed but the feeling of these two warm sentries flanking him on either side was comforting enough that he didn’t tell them to move. Besides, he realised, as they lowered their chins to rest on top of two sets of crossed paws, the sheer size of them meant he was fairly sure he wouldn’t have been able to move them even if he’d wanted to.

“Impa,” Crowley said warningly, clambering back into bed behind the two huge dogs. “Midna. Can you get down, please?”

While Impa closed her eyes as if that might suddenly render her unable to hear, Midna looked lazily back at Crowley, barely registering his presence before she rolled slowly onto one side and stretched her legs out, huge paws pressing against Zira’s shins, as if his mere presence was an inconvenience to her napping space.

“You showed them,” Zira murmured, as Crowley rolled his eyes and turned his attention back to his laptop.

“They’re only here for a couple of days, I think. God knows. All they do is sleep, ignore Barnaby, and maybe agree to a walk if they’re in the mood. Tell me if they’re bothering you.”

“No, no.” Zira ruffled the wires of silver hair behind Midna’s ears and she exhaled gratefully against his leg. There was something calming about these two silver giants curled up around him. Besides, anything that might distract him from real life was something he was only too happy to welcome with open arms. “They’re sweet. So, what’s first on the list?”

“Call your insurance. Find out what you need to put in a claim. I'll call the bank, pretend to be you and get replacement cards sorted, little bit of identity fraud can't hurt, right?” Crowley glanced down at his laptop, tore a chunk off of one of the long-cold slices of toast on his plate. Impa looked up at him, tail thumping hopefully, then let her heavy head flop back against the sheets as he shook his head at her.

Zira clapped his hands together, ready to get started. “Great. Okay. What’s the, er, what’s their phone number?”

Crowley sighed. This was what he’d been afraid of. “I don’t know, angel, who are you insured with?”

“I…er, all my paperwork was in the shop.” He shrugged, lips pursed together in something that might have been an apology but quickly transitioned into anxiety. The first job on the list and he’d already failed. How could he ever get his life on track if he couldn’t even remember the name of the company who he paid an extortionate amount of money to just in case a situation like this ever arose?

“Don’t worry, don’t worry,” Crowley said quickly, laying a hand on his forearm, feeling the panicked jump of his pulse pounding in his wrist. “There’ll be something in your e-mails. Everything’s paperless now. Here, log in and we’ll have a look.”

Zira stared down at the laptop, then looked back at Crowley, then down at the login screen that contained very few instructions he was at all familiar with. “I don’t know what this means, Crowley.”

“Put your e-mail address in here and your password here. Then, through the magic of technology, all of your e-mails will be on the screen.” Crowley’s voice was patient, mildly patronising but patient all the same. He had spent long enough working with Zira to know that the online world was something that left him flustered. Still, logging into his e-mails, it couldn’t be that confusing, could it?

“I’ve never done this before.” Zira huffed, loudly typing in his e-mail address with nothing but his index fingers. He came to the password field, tried his trusty default of ‘Password’ and felt his blood pressure soar as it came back with an error. “I don’t _know_ my password. I don’t need to know. They’re just…there on my computer.”

After three more failed attempts Zira’s typing had become so violent Crowley was fairly sure his index fingers might plunge through his laptop and make contact with the mattress at any moment. As Zira wailed in frustration, he gently rescued his laptop from the bookseller’s death grip and slid it back down the side of the bed, safe and sound from Zira’s deficient typing skills.

“I think their logo was blue and white,” Zira said helpfully a moment later, holding up a single finger as if he’d just had a Eureka! moment. “Does that help? I’m sure it was. Maybe there was some red in there.”

As it turned out, a surprising amount of property insurers had blue and white (and maybe some red) in their logos. After an hour of politely enquiring if any of the companies they’d Googled had a Mr Zira Fell in their database, Crowley managed to get through to the right number on his fourth attempt. He thrust the phone into Zira’s hand and left him to it, whispering a reminder to write down everything they needed to submit a claim.

Pulling the bedroom door closed behind him, Crowley sank down on the sofa and let out a tense sigh, running a hand through his hair as he reminded himself to stay patient, that Zira had lost absolutely everything he owned in the world, and that what he needed most was an understanding presence to lean on, not somebody who was ready to duct tape his fingers together so he couldn’t helpfully try and fail to input a CAPTCHA correctly on his ninth attempt.

***

The burgundy wrap-around facade of Z. Fell and Co. was nothing but a blackened shell, curls of burned paint flaking off at the gentlest gust of winter wind, fluttering on the breeze past Crowley and Zira as they stood in front of the remains of the shop.

The windows had been blown out by the force of the blaze and one door was hanging sadly from a single hinge, the other flattened against the shop floor, which was now nothing more than a wet mess of soot. The stink of stale smoke hung in the air, and shelf after shelf of beautiful, irreplaceable books were nothing but piles of ash, their hidden worlds reduced to dust. The back of the shop, those displays that lay closest to the flat, were completely destroyed. The cash desk was beyond recognition, a melted monstrosity like a candle left to burn until the wax distorted itself into a formless gargoyle. Those were the books that had never stood a chance; those precious first editions, the books Zira held in highest esteem, kept away from the sunlight, the open door, all in a bid to keep them pristine. In the end, though, it wasn’t the sun he needed to be worried about.

Closer to the front of the shop there was less fire damage. The floorboards were still in tact and the shelves had held up, mostly. There was no hope for the books, though, soaked through by the firefighters’ attempts to calm the blaze. Fire and water, as it turned out, could wreak just as much damage as the other.

There had been nobody there when they’d arrived, save for a few curious tourists stopping to take photos of the ruined shop that was still gently smoking from the upper floor.

“Good picture, is it?” Crowley snapped, taking a step towards them as Zira tugged at his forearm. “Bookshop burned to the ground, plenty of _Likes_ to be had, are there? Get out of here.”

They’d scattered then, phones guiltily stashed in their pockets as they’d refused to meet his gaze.

A coil of _Caution_ tape was wound around the outside of the shop and Crowley held it up as they ducked underneath and stepped gently onto the remaining floorboards, testing each one cautiously before taking another step. Zira had been silent since they’d arrived, had gripped onto Crowley’s hand, the other buried in the pocket of the same outfit he’d been wearing since Crowley had given it to him the night before, feet tucked inside a pair of black Converse. He’d never worn anything like them before, had to hand it to Crowley that they _were_ very comfortable, even if they were the exact anthesis of his carefully curated personal style.

“Look.” Zira’s voice was filled with quiet wonder as he stared up at the wall behind what remained of the cash register. Crowley followed his eye line, found himself taking a half step back as he took in the sight in front of them. The wall was stained with the deep yellow of smoke and water damage, black streaks licking their way up from the skirting board. The two shelves that had held Zira’s most in-demand titles no longer existed, though Crowley presumed the twin piles of ash and half burned pages on the ground were the form they took now. But there, in the centre of the wall, gleaming as brightly and brilliantly as if not even an inferno could touch it, was the sword.

“How did it…?” Crowley trailed off, as Zira walked slowly forward, eyes trained on the stretch of gleaming metal as if it was drawing him closer and closer. “Careful.”

Zira paused for a moment, as if barely registering Crowley’s words, then reached up and wrapped a hand around it, tugging it free from the display case and holding it aloft as he turned it this way and that. When he spoke he did so in a low, curious voice. “Strangest thing. It’s been screwed into that case for as long as I can remember. I always wanted to take it down. Could never get it open.”

It was mildly disconcerting to look down and find a full-sized sword in Zira’s hand but it seemed to bring him enough comfort that Crowley didn’t have the heart to ask him why the hell he was carrying the wretched thing around as if it was a teddy bear. As they travelled from ruined room to ruined room as best they could, stepping carefully onto the few floorboards that hadn’t been burned away, Crowley took photos of the damage from every available angle. He was grateful for the role of photographer, it gave him something to do other than fuss over Zira and risk making him feel even more fragile. Besides, the bookseller had lingered behind a few times, would emerge moments later sniffing suspiciously and rubbing roughly at red-rimmed eyes. Crowley knew better than to call attention to it, to ask redundantly if he was okay. Of course he wasn’t okay, of course he was crying, of course he wanted to be left alone to his grief. There were questions that didn’t need to be asked.

The back room of the shop had been destroyed, floorboards petering out into nothing but the dusty, cold foundations below. The upstairs of the flat was inaccessible, the stairs cracked and split, steps hanging loosely where they had become untethered from the rest of the staircase. Crowley looked sadly at the charred remains of the carpet that Zira had been so pleased with, the carpet that had only been laid a few weeks before, after the flood had wrought a different kind of havoc on the shop. _Two accidents in such quick succession_, Crowley thought, _what were the odds_?

“This is everything that’s left,” Zira said, turning in a small circle, feet kicking against ruined books that lay at his feet. Those words, those worlds, lost forever. “Everything that’s left of my little life.”

He looked up at the ruined staircase that had led up to the rest of his safe haven, the bedroom where he and Crowley had shared their first kiss, their first night together, the bed where they had woken up together for the first time, the second time, the third and fourth. It was gone, all of it. Every soft waistcoat, every little bow tie that he had worn like armour, every book he had treasured and every title he’d been promising himself he would read _soon_. Twenty four hours before he had felt like the man who had everything and now here he was, standing in the ashes of that pride, where nothing but Crowley was left. He turned to him then, pressed his forehead to his shoulder, closed his eyes and tried to cry quietly as he felt that safe pair of arms wind around his back, a thumb stroking his skin through the t-shirt that wasn’t even his own.

***

“I know, boy, I’m sorry.” Crowley reached down to pat Barnaby between his shoulder blades as the dog strained at his lead and let out a little whimper of desperation as he watched Impa and Midna lope regally off across the heath. “Just a few more weeks and then you’ll be running circles around them, I promise.”

With Barnaby slinking furiously along next to them, Crowley and Zira climbed the winding path that led up to the top of the sprawling heath, sinking down side by side on a bench that looked out across the dense tangle of trees in the nearby forest. Crowley smiled, remembering the day he had come here the previous summer, needing time alone to straighten out his thoughts, to shrug off that creeping dread of mounting responsibilities, of bills that were overdue, of deadlines that loomed like shadows rising out of the dark. It had, of course, been the day that his world had been forever changed when a bookseller had called him and asked for help with a website. They were still there, naturally, the stresses of bills and deadlines, of client meetings and tax returns and the unending stream of rent increases, but at least now, he thought, glancing across at Zira, there was a bubble to disappear into, that fairytale bliss of having somebody on your side, in your corner, a teammate with who you could face whatever life had in store.

Zira had been morose when they’d returned from the shop. It was to be expected, Crowley had reasoned, wasn’t sure how anybody could have stood ankle-deep in the remains of their home and emerged with anything but a black cloud of anguish hovering over them. They’d gone through the painful process of submitting an insurance claim, had been promised that they'd send a team to secure the property, that an agent would liaise with them within the next days, and then Zira had curled up on the sofa and fallen into broken, fitful sleep for the next two hours.

“Come on,” Crowley had said gently, sitting down next to him and lifting his head until it rested against his thigh. He had pondered what he could do to cheer Zira up while they wiled the rest of the day away. With everything out of their hands, life had become a waiting game and Crowley had wasted enough hours filled with dread as he waited for potential clients to call him back to know that wallowing indoors did no good whatsoever. Even if your name was Zira Fell and wallowing indoors was one of your favourite pastimes. “We’re getting some fresh air. God knows your lungs need it.”

“I told you,” Zira had replied, pausing to pretend he wasn’t coughing against his closed fist. “I didn’t breathe that much of it in. Just a cough, I had it before.”

“No you didn’t.” Crowley gave him a withering look, then tossed him a black jumper and the red tartan scarf he’d been such a fan of at Christmas. “Look at that, your wardrobe’s beginning to take shape.”

Zira pulled the jumper over his head, winced as the sleeves clung a little too tightly to the tops of his arms. Still, Crowley’s scent was undeniably woven into the fabric and he raised one sleeve to his nose, giving it a little sniff and smiling to himself. “Rather a lot of black, isn’t there?”

“Suits your new brooding attitude.” Crowley waited for a look of shock of register on Zira’s face, then broke into a grin, pulling him close as he called for the dogs. “Laugh or cry, eh?”

They spent an hour there on the heath, sitting together on the bench and watching the twin wolfhounds careen around below as Barnaby lay in front of them, head on his paws, looking utterly desolate. Crowley had tried to ignore the guilt at keeping him so close but all the canine sulking in the world wouldn’t be enough to convince him to deviate from the vet’s instructions. Though logically he knew it was an accident, he would never really shrug off the notion that Barnaby’s broken leg was down to his own carelessness, and he’d be damned if he would do a single thing to hinder his recovery.

“I come here when I need to breathe,” he said finally, staring out at the trees that lay beyond them, that unknowable knot of greenery that could have led to another world for all they knew. There had always been something reverent about the forests, something magical, as if you could lose a part of yourself if you strayed too deep. Find a part of yourself too, perhaps. “There’s something about the trees. Strength, somehow. Endurance. Hope, I think, in the forests.”

Zira looked at him then, found his gaze locked on the trees, golden eyes wistful, as if he’d plunged into a waking dream. There was something of the forest’s essence in Crowley, he thought; persistence, that sense of hope he held quietly inside.

“It’s gone, what I had before,” Zira murmured quietly, as he looked away from the trees and watched the dogs canter back and forth. “Those safety blankets. I think over the years they’d become a crutch. Rebuilding, that’s what comes next, isn’t it? Let’s hope this run of luck is over.”

“I’m a curse, angel." Crowley smiled, looked down at his feet before his lips could commit to any real gesture of mirth. "All you’ve had is bad luck since I came into your life.”

“Oh, I don’t know, Crowley. It hasn’t been all bad.” A half smile and then a kiss, a promise from both sides to stand together, wherever that might take them.

On a bench perched on top of the heath, tucked away between the trees and the sky, a dog walker and a bookseller sat hand in hand and dreamed of putting a life back together, page by page.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Goooood afternoon and welcome to Part II Act III, my friends! I hope you enjoyed this one; the next chapter is coming on Tuesday, as has become customary :D.
> 
> I hope you all had a delightful weekend and manage to side-step the Sunday Night Dreads for the week ahead.
> 
> I'll be around in the comments later this evening...just as soon as I've watched John Wick 3!
> 
> <3


	24. Brand New Day

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Crowley lifted up the box, waggled it in Zira’s face. “Big plans for these, angel. You’ll see. They’ll make living together a breeze.”

**January. Crowley’s Flat, London.**

“Mmm,” Zira moaned, letting his head fall to one side as he felt a tongue against his neck. _What a wake up_, he thought. Things had been rather…sparse on the old intimacy front since the fire. He assumed Crowley was giving him space, which he _was_ grateful for as pouncing on him hadn’t been in the forefront of his mind, what with all the dreaded paperwork and hours spent on the phone dealing with post-fire admin that the last two days had entailed. That said, though, there was nothing like being woken up by a…panting breath on his cheek and a long lick across his forehead.

Zira’s eyes snapped open and he found one of the wolfhounds standing over him on the bed, face bent so close he could only make out a big black nose inches from his own.

“_Midna!_”

Zira looked around in horror to find Crowley leaning against the doorframe, arms folded and a wicked smile on his face that suggested that, yes, he had witnessed the entire affair.

“If you were in the mood, angel, you could have just told me.”

“Yes, thank you, Crowley, that’s quite sufficient,” Zira snapped, holding the dog at arm’s length as he slid out from underneath her and tried to muster some semblance of dignity as he stalked around the bed.

He paused in the doorway as Crowley caught his hand, linking their fingers together and raising one eyebrow. Zira looked up, found that hunger in Crowley’s eyes that was always a precursor to something he would end up enjoying very much indeed.

“I know I’ve only got two legs instead of four,” Crowley began, backing Zira closer to the doorframe and sliding one of those aforementioned legs between his knees as he brought a hand to the small of his back. “And I know I’m sorely lacking in the fur and tail department but…”

“Shut up and kiss me,” Zira breathed, reaching up to ball a fist in the neck of Crowley’s t-shirt and tug him down until their lips met. A second later he heard that familiar growl of desire against his skin, felt a hand come to cradle the back of his head, the other coming to rest under his thighs as Crowley picked him up, wrapping his legs around his waist and slamming him back against the doorframe.

As Crowley pressed his hips to Zira’s, sliding the bookseller’s t-shirt over his head and dipping his head to press a slow, torturous kiss against his chest, the voice bloomed to life in his mind and quietly hissed its approval before retreating back into the darkness before it could distract him any further. After all, three is, as they say, a crowd.

_Ah, the old patented wall slam. Finishing what I started? You’re welcome, idiot._

***

“How does it feel to be slumming it with the rest of us?” Crowley asked, draped over a shopping trolley that he pushed slowly down towards the bakery section as Zira wandered along beside him, looking just as confused as a holidaymaker might when visiting a foreign supermarket for the first time.

“Everything is…laid out wrong,” he mused, though there was a tinge of fascination there, the excitement of discovering something new. “Why is…why is chocolate next to the cereal?”

“No more Waitrose budget for you, Mr Moneybags, time to learn how to live within your means.” Crowley came to a stop in front of a display of fruit, tossed a couple of punnets of berries into the trolley.

Ravenous after the early morning ravaging, Crowley had ignored Zira’s pleas for brunch at the little cafe around the corner from his flat that did divine things to halloumi and shakshuka, and had instead driven him to the nearest supermarket that wouldn’t break his, or Zira’s, budget. Besides, he couldn’t stand another night of Zira sadly trying to clean his teeth with toothpaste on his finger. He’d cleaned not one but two splodges of dried toothpaste off of the bathroom floor that week and he didn’t intend to discover a third. A toothbrush, toiletries and whatever food the bookseller managed to sniff out were all they had come for. Zira’s new bank cards had mercifully arrived that morning but, even so, times were going to be tough with the website and the smoking remains of the shop generating no income for the foreseeable future so there would be absolutely no deviating from their carefully planned list. Absolutely none. Crowley would, he promised himself, ignore the siren song of the middle aisle of fantastical items he neither wanted nor needed but was powerless to resist.

_I don’t need iced custard brioche_. Zira shook his head, replaced the package of soft, sweet bread on the shelf, where it stared at him longingly.

_You need iced custard brioche_, came the voice in his head, which sounded very much like it might die if it didn’t get to taste the sweet treat.

_Medjool dates are…not a necessity_. Zira sighed, walking past the display of sticky, rich dates and ignoring the rumbling in his stomach.

_You’re having a hard week, my good sir. You deserve a treat. Dates are a treat. Buy the dates._

“What is all this?” Crowley asked, looking down at the armful of groceries Zira carefully deposited in his designated section of the trolley. “What are you planning on cooking with…dates, dehydrated truffles, and…how did you manage to find lobster in Lidl?”

“Shop burned down.” Zira shrugged. “I deserve a treat.”

Crowley held his gaze for a minute then looked away, laughing. “Fair enough, lobster and brioche sounds delicious. You have so much to learn about budgeting, my sweet, out of touch angel.”

_I do not need a bamboo bath tray_. Crowley balled his fists at his side, fighting the urge to grab the tray and sling it into the trolley before he could change his mind. _No. I have a list. I am a budgeting guru. I will be strong._

_You really, really need a bamboo bath tray. It even has a glass holder for wine. A glass of red while you have a good soak, doesn’t that sound…tempting? _That voice, when it whispered to him in that low, lazy hiss, was all but impossible to say no to. It was, just like the bamboo bath tray that now resided in his trolley, extremely tempting indeed.

_Well, I definitely don’t need a walkie talkie set. Even if it does sound like the most fun we could have without taking our clothes off. No walkie talkie set for this unconventional household. No siree._

_I think we both know you need the walkie talkie set._

“Crowley?” Zira asked, as they reunited in the checkout queue and the bookseller glanced down at the overflowing trolley. “What happened to budgeting?”

“Walkie talkies.” Crowley lifted up the box, waggled it in Zira’s face. “Big plans for these, angel. You’ll see. They’ll make living together a breeze.”

“And the, er, miniature greenhouse?”

“Well, there’s two of us now…sustainability…small-scale gardening, you know?”

“Doesn’t Mick bring you a vegetable box from the allotment every week?”

“_Yes_ but…”

Zira lifted up the greenhouse box to find a series of inane items that got more and more ridiculous the deeper he delved. “And is that a harmonica?”

“Okay, that one might have been an impulse buy. But the others are essentials, I swear.”

“There’s a crepe maker in here and…oh, okay, that is an essential.”

“See, angel, I was really just thinking about you.” Crowley shrugged, pasting his most innocent smile on as he quietly slid a second box of chocolate muffin mix in beside the harmonica. “Want to make sure you feel at home. You’ve had such a hard week.”

“Yes,” Zira looked him up and down, then snuck a third box of dates into the trolley when he wasn’t looking. “Forever selfless, aren’t you?”

***

“You,” Crowley said, pausing to revel in the taste sensation exploding in his mouth, “are a terrible influence.”

“And _you _are very welcome for the brioche.” Zira leaned across to press sugary lips against his cheek.

“Quiet, isn’t it, without the ladies?” Crowley looked around, marvelled at how much more spacious the flat seemed in the wake of Impa and Midna’s departure. Verity had picked them up moments after they’d returned from their very successful shopping trip, had foisted a heavy bar of creamy Swiss chocolate on them as a thank you before she breezed out of the flat, dogs in tow, promising Zira they’d finally say hello properly at the band’s upcoming gig.

Zira had smiled after her, even after the door had been closed between them, giddy at the knowledge that he was becoming _something _in Crowley’s life, enough of a something that his friends were going out of their way to include him. The gig, he mused, would hopefully be more drinking and chatting with Crowley’s friends than death by a thousand angry groupies.

While inviting Zira to stay with him until the shop was back to its former glory had been an instinctive decision he hadn’t regretted for a moment, Crowley did have reservations about how the two of them were going to manage to coexist in the tiny space that was his flat. With his two canine visitors back with their owner, though, he felt relieved as he looked around and found merciful space Their own personal space, he reasoned, and communal spaces free from clutter, would be the key to a harmonious living arrangement that would help their fledgling relationship flourish rather then crash and burn under the weight of...

_Bzzzt._

Crowley dropped his brioche back onto the plate and looked around for any of Impa and Midna’s toys he might have forgotten to pack, calling for Barnaby to pipe down as he scratched at the door of his kitchen prison. The wolfhounds were, after all, notoriously precious about their toys, with Impa refusing to sleep at night without her squeaky lion nestled between her paws. There were no stray toys, only Barnaby’s panda, which was now missing one ear, the other just one chewing session away from total annihilation.

“Hello?” He leaned in close to the intercom, felt a flare of exhilaration and terror as a silky, treacle-thick voice undulated from the speaker.

“Hello, little one. Can we come up? Brought a few things over for your other half.”

Crowley leaned back towards Zira, frantically covering the intercom with one hand. “It’s Raphael and Luci!”

“Oh?” Zira sat up, wondering if Raphael had received his apology text about the copy of Candide that had succumbed to the fire.

***

“Darlings.” Raphael swept into the flat in a haze of vetiver-perfumed cologne, a slew of black suit carriers folded over one arm. He crossed the room in three large strides and embraced Zira in a tight hug. “We came as soon as we got your message. Thought we’d bring a few bits to help you get started. I am so deeply sorry, my boy.”

Luci followed him in, tugging a huge suitcase on wheels in each hand. They rolled them up against the wall then turned to Crowley, voice low and concerned as they pressed a kiss to each of his cheeks. “How are you, sweetheart? How is he holding up? What a tragedy, that beautiful shop, all of those books.”

There was a warmth that surrounded Raphael and Luci, something that unfurled wherever they went. It poured out into the flat as the two of them sat Zira down on the sofa, sitting either side of him as they leaned in close, each took one of his hands and listened with shining eyes as he recounted everything that had happened on that hellish night. As Zira reached the point where Crowley had marched him to A&E and Raphael and Luci turned to look at him as if they couldn’t be more grateful or proud, the only thought rocketing around Crowley’s mind was _they’re in my flat, Raphael and Luci are here in my flat, my tiny flat, my flat that is probably smaller than their third bathroom. They probably had no idea people live like this, they probably want to helicopter Zira away to a five star suite, take him away from the underworld of flat blocks without lifts and… Oh god oh god oh god._

_How dare you._

The voice, which Crowley had felt aligned with during the Great Lidl Budgeting Failure of That Morning, felt like an enemy again as it furiously hissed three accusatory words at him. What Crowley was being accused of, he wasn’t sure.

_Excuse me? What’s got into you? I thought after this morning we were…_

_Raphael and Lucif-, Luci, Raphael and Luci are two of the kindest, most nurturing, good-hearted souls you could ever have the honour to exist in the same realm as, and you have the audacity, no, the insolence to stand there and think that they would ever…_

_Bloody hell, calm down. I didn’t say they aren’t two of the kindest souls I’ve ever had the honour to exist in the same realm as. Dramatic, as always, I see. I just thought they might recoil in horror at my whole five hundred square feet of space when they’re used to…_

_You don’t know what they’re used to. You don’t know where they came from, or what they’ve been through. They’ve earned this, you little…_

_All right, well, I think it’s time to put you in a time out until you calm down._

The voice’s roaring fury was still echoing around his brain when Luci stood up suddenly, looking around the flat with an awe-struck look in their eye. _Here it comes_, thought Crowley, _they’ve finally realised I’m never going to be good enough for…_

“The light,” they said, holding up one hand and letting the golden rays of the afternoon sun dance on their skin. Flecks of dust were caught in the beams of light, could have been stardust by the way Luci was staring at them in wonder. “The light in here is so beautiful.”

“Ah, here we go.” Raphael nodded in understanding as Luci pulled a sketchbook out of their bag and sank back down on the sofa, flipping to a blank page and blowing gently on the tip of a pencil they had procured from Crowley’s coffee table. “While my beautiful artist is occupied for the next two hours, shall I nip down and get the rest?”

“The rest?” Crowley asked quietly, pausing in the doorway to look back at his flat, which had appeared to shrink again in the wake of Raphael and Luci’s generous donations. Zira gave him a small, apologetic grin and Crowley pasted a smile on his face, dashing out of the door to follow Raphael.

***

“Angel? I’m home!” Crowley called, staggering through the door and dropping a groaning bag on the floor as he sagged against the doorframe, one hand clutching his ribs while the other wiped beads of sweat from his forehead.

Zira’s head popped up from behind a stack of boxes next to the sofa, which was so covered in suit carriers and bags of what Raphael and Luci had deemed _a few essentials_ that there was only one cushion left available, which was currently occupied by Barnaby. He didn’t even bother getting down from the sofa to welcome his cheating master home, could smell the stink of the other dogs from the other side of the room. He had grown used to it, the daily betrayal, but it didn’t sting any less.

“Are you all right, my dear?” Zira asked, hauling himself up and dusting off the knees of his paint-splattered joggers as he caught sight of Crowley doubled over, attempting to catch his breath.

“Fine, I’m fine,” Crowley wheezed, waving Zira’s concern away with one trembling hand. “Just…long walk today. Heavy bag. So many lasagnes. Don’t know what she was thinking. Lasagnes for weeks.”

Zira eyed the bag on the floor with curiosity, reached down to pick it up and promptly buckled under the weight of it. He peered inside, wrinkling his nose as he looked down at a stack of glass tupperware dishes, filled to the brim with freshly assembled lasagne. “Our favourite psychic, I presume?”

Crowley nodded, sucking in one more gasping breath before swinging the bag over his shoulder like a sack of swag and hauling it into the kitchen, where he deposited it on the one worktop that wasn’t cluttered with the spoils of that morning’s trip to the supermarket. “She sends her love, said she’ll pop round to see you in a few days, sent enough food for the next month in the meantime. Oh, and there’s a little something from Shadwell in there too. He called me a foolish bastard as he gave me the bag so…god knows what it is.”

“That sweet, angry man,” Zira said wondrously, as he pulled a bottle of dark amber whisky free from the bag, gazing at it as if it was the sweetest nectar. There was a post-it note stuck onto the bottle, words scratched on the luminous yellow background that Zira had to squint to make out.

_Domestic bliss? God speed, gentlemen._

“Well,” Crowley said lightly, leaning close to his own bottle to read the same words on his own post-it message from Tracy’s grumbling, quietly caring husband. “Isn’t that ominous? What did you get up to while I was out?”

“Gossiping about you with Barnaby.” Zira shrugged, pulling the fridge open and stacking lasagne after lasagne on the only shelf that wasn’t crammed full of food. “Trying to sort out Raphael and Luci’s bountiful gifts. I don’t know if you’re in the market for a new silk robe but…well, take your pick.”

Crowley gulped, leaning out of the kitchen to take in the unorganised chaos his neat little flat had been transformed into during his absence. He felt his heart pound tightly in his chest as he looked at the mounds of clothes Zira had draped over the coffee table, the shoe boxes that were stacked up next to his guitar rack. _It’s fine, it’s fine, you can tidy up in the morning, you can clear some space in the wardrobe. It looks worse than it is. It’s probably not even that much once you…why the hell are there four different pairs of slippers on the bed? We don’t even have that many feet between us._

He looked across at Zira, tried to banish the growing anxiety of what a huge undertaking actually living together for the foreseeable future was going to be, but then the bookseller broke into a smile so sweetly full of excitement as he popped a lasagne in the oven that Crowley found himself relenting. It _might_ be nice to have a set of slippers just for the weekends, after all.

***

“I don’t know, angel, I think I could get used to this.” Crowley leaned back against the arm of the sofa, legs draped over Zira’s, running one hand along the lapel of the scarlet and gold velvet smoking jacket he’d found in one of the suit carriers Raphael had dropped over earlier that day. Next to him, Zira had donned a matching emerald green jacket, pristine except for the circular cigar burn on the right cuff, a fitting detail given that week’s events but one that Crowley opted to leave unmentioned.

One huge dish of piping hot lasagne lay on the coffee table in front of them, flanked on either side by a glass of whisky, courtesy of Shadwell’s good luck gift. Around his neck hung the harmonica he’d been tempted into earlier that day, and every so often he’d bring it to his lips to tunelessly hum along with whichever song was softly playing in the background.

They’d been working their way through the lasagne for the last half an hour but forkful after forkful hadn’t seemed to make the slightest dent in the huge dish of deliciously comforting pasta and meat. Stretched out next to Zira with a bellyful of warm food and his mind calmed by whisky, Crowley felt more relaxed than he had all day. What did mountains of clutter in every corner of the flat matter if their future was made up of evenings like this, chilling out with hearty home-cooked food and even better alcohol?

Crowley brought the stiff sleeve of the jacket up to his nose and sniffed it cautiously, recoiling at the heady scent of opium and cigar smoke. “Do you think…do you think he’s worn this to an orgy?”

Zira dropped his fork onto the coffee table as he choked on a mouthful of lasagne. “No,” he hissed sharply, pounding one fist against his chest. “I do _not_ think Raphael has worn that jacket to an orgy. For heaven’s sake, Crowley, don’t give me that mental image.”

“I’m just saying.” Crowley shrugged, raised an arm to admire the intricate golden embroidery on the cuff. “If I can picture any pair of hedonists swinging by an orgy late one Saturday night it’s those two.”

“_Swinging_ by.” Zira sighed, closing his eyes as if to purge the very idea from his mind. “Those are my…_mentors_, and I don’t need to think about them…”

“Fraternising?” Crowley asked helpfully, washing down a forkful of food with a gulp of whisky. “Say what you want about Shadwell but the man knows his drink, doesn’t he?”

“That he does.” Zira gently swirled his glass, grateful for the change of topic, watched as the liquid inside whirlpooled slowly around. “Thank you for today, for yesterday. For everything really. I’m not sure what I would have done without you. I wouldn’t have blamed you, you know, if this had been too much. Me and my baggage.”

Crowley opened his mouth to speak but Zira shook his head, fingers reaching out to curl around Crowley’s thigh as he continued. “I know it’s a lot, us living together like this. It’s not...I know it wasn’t the plan. Not after less than a fortnight.” Crowley conceded with a non-committal noise that left them both smiling.

“I needed this, a day like today. Something...frivolous to take my mind off of things.” Zira ran a finger along the underside of the harmonica, down the edge of the Crowley’s jacket, palm lingering against his chest. “My entire world has fallen apart and yet here I am, eating a lasagne cooked by a medium, wearing a smoking jacket that may or may not have been worn to an orgy, asking for more ice for my whisky through a walkie talkie.”

“Crazy old life, isn’t it?” Crowley laughed, then his smile faded as he reached out for Zira’s hand, looked up at him as he spoke. “I meant it, though, what I said to you. I’ve got you, angel, we’re in this together. I know it’s not what we planned. I know it feels like everything’s going too fast but we’ll make it work. Nothing about us has been conventional so far, why change now?”

“I know _this_ isn’t ideal. I know it’s your idea of hell.” Zira paused to gesture at the chaos around them. “I thought perhaps, tomorrow maybe, I could look into a storage unit. I don’t want to clutter up your life.”

“Angel, you are not putting your things in a storage unit.” Crowley sighed guiltily, mostly because he _had_ spent most of the day worrying about how this living situation could possibly work without him having a clutter-related meltdown. “Look, we just need some ground rules, right? Rules are good, they make something formless into a thing. Official. Everyone knows where they stand.”

“Fine. I want to pay rent.”

“I am not inviting you to stay with me and then charging you for the privilege, just chuck me some money for bills once a month.”

“No, I’m paying half and I’m not discussing it further. How much is your rent?”

“I pay four fifty.”

“Well, that seems reasonable. I’ll go straight to the bank tomorrow and set up a standing order. Four hundred and fifty pounds a month, with what they say about the London rental market I rather thought-”

“A week.” Crowley shot him a look that was equal parts incredulous and withering. “Jesus, angel, you’re even further gone than I thought. Look, if you want to pay rent then I expect you to treat this place like home. I’m not having you live out of boxes, or a storage unit; I’ll clear you some space in the wardrobe tomorrow, empty one of the bedside tables. Might even give you a drawer in the dresser if you’re lucky, how does that sound?”

Zira nodded through a mouthful of lasagne, wondering if they would ever hit the bottom of the dish even if they kept eating all night. Forget being a medium, was Tracy spending her evenings moonlighting as a culinary witch? He thought about Crowley’s offer of a space in the flat to call his own, of contributing financially, of the two of them laying down the law together. It sounded, he realised, a little bit _fun_. If he had to spend the next few months overseeing the mind-numbing process of putting his life back together, there were worse living situations he could have found himself in. A lonely hotel room devoid of personality, the same generic abstract painting duplicated in each of the three hundred rooms in the greyscale building; it would have got to him there, the dreadful feeling of being untethered from every creature comfort. In the flat, short on space though they were, there was warmth woven into the very fabric of the place, Crowley’s hard-won haven that he had opened to him, that he had willingly shared without a second thought. _I don’t deserve you_, Zira thought, looking across at him as he drained the last mouthful of whisky from his glass. _But I want to, I will, I will be what you deserve, I swear._

“It sounds perfect. Ah, another rule, you have to be honest with me if I’m being too…” He trailed off then, waving his hands loosely in the air around his head as if that explained anything. “I don’t know, messy, disorganised. You will tell me, won’t you?”

_No_, Crowley thought, _of course I won’t. I’ll do what any sensible person does and bottle it up until it boils over at a later date. Maybe I can learn to live with it, as it’s you. _“Yes. Yes, of course I will. I think we just need to accept it’s going to be tricky, there’s going to be conflict. The most important thing is that none of the stress of living together messes up…this.”

“This?”

“You know, _this_. Us. Whatever this is.” It was Crowley’s turn to wave his hands vaguely in the air, as if there was a single gesture in existence that could begin to explain the intricate tapestry that was their shared history. “Nothing that happens here, no stupid arguments about whose turn it is to take the bins out, no fights about who used the last of the butter, none of it comes between us, deal?”

“Deal.” Zira reached out and shook his hand, felt a thrill of excitement at the cementing of an official arrangement.

“All we have to do is keep things simple. No over-complicating things. I was thinking, the bed situation. It’s a situation, right? Two of us. One bed. _Space _in the bed for two, sure. Is it tempting to both hop in every night as if moving in together after less than two weeks isn’t going to completely muddy the waters? Absolutely. What do you say to doing the one thing that seems to have completely eluded us so far?”

Zira leaned forward expectantly, having tuned out everything after Crowley had mentioned how tempting it was to hop into bed together every night.

“What do you say to being sensible for once?”

Zira flopped back against the sofa, exhaling heavily. “Is this some kind of role reversal, Crowley? You being the sensible one? I’m not sure I’m on board, if I’m honest. Is this how you feel when I suggest an early night?”

“No, no, listen. On the nights when we would have anyway, on date nights, sure, full steam ahead with the whole hopping into bed together, all good, all the fraternising. On the other nights, the nights when we’re just, you know, shacking up, you take the bed and I’ll take the sofa. Give us something to look forward to. Boundaries, you know? Boundaries are important, right? Look at me being responsible.”

“Yes, very good, very _responsible_. Fine, I suppose, but we’re alternating. You can’t sleep on the sofa every time, you know what your back is like.”

_It’s been two days_, Crowley thought to himself, reaching out to pour Zira another whisky, smiling fondly as the bookseller hummed happily along to a song Crowley was fairly sure he’d only ever heard played within the four walls of the flat. _Two days and_ w_e’ve already devolved into old married couple status. We’re doomed. And I can’t wait._

***

Crowley turned onto his side, felt the seam of a sofa cushion dig into his hip and growled quietly to himself, flailing over onto his back and staring up at the ceiling. He’d slept on the sofa before. Many times, in fact. Had always found it surprisingly comfortable. Yes, there was the achy back to deal with the next morning but he’d never had any problems falling asleep curled against the cushions. Of course, the last time he’d slept on the sofa and Zira had taken the bed it had been months before they had tip-toed from _you and I _to _we_. It felt so faraway, that night when the shop had flooded, that it could have been a lifetime ago. Still, there was something about knowing Zira was so close, just one room away, that was making sleep an impossibility.

_What are you complaining about? You came up with this ridiculous idea. He’s right there, idiot, what the hell do you think you’re doing taking the sofa? You’re not a…priest._

The voice stopped abruptly and Crowley was aware of the vague sound of retching in one of the dark corners of his brain.

_Yes, thank you for your constructive input, I am aware of that. I was trying not to ruin things. I know he takes things slow, I don’t want to go too fast._

A long, low, laborious sigh rattled around his brain.

_If I hear those bloody words one more time, I swear to Someone I’ll…_

Before Crowley could argue back the sound of static rose up as the walkie talkie he’d left abandoned on the coffee table sprang to life. Brow furrowed in confusion, he picked it up, holding down the receiver button.

“I don’t know what’s going on in here, Crowley, but it’s absolutely freezing. Positively arctic.” Zira’s voice crackled to life through the speaker.

_There you are, _he thought, cradling the walkie talkie between his ear and shoulder as he folded his arms behind his head, _my rule-breaking, rebellious angel. _“I suppose, as your new landlord, I should do something to fix that. What did you have in mind?”

When Zira spoke his voice was lightly teasing, loaded with intent, and Crowley bit his lip in the darkness. “They _do_ say body heat is rather effective. Gets the blood pumping, if you catch my-” 

His sentence was cut short as the bedroom door banged open and Crowley stood silhouetted in the doorway, looking down at him before closing the gap between them and sliding between the sheets, his hands finding Zira’s hips in the dark and pulling him close.

“Ah, but what about the rules?” Zira pulled back, one finger running lazily along the hem of Crowley's t-shirt.

And then there was a hand pressed to his lower back, the sharp pleasure of five fingernails pressed to his skin, lips hovering a breath away from his ear as Crowley hissed the three most perfect words Zira had heard all day. "Fuck the rules."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Happy Tuesday, folks! 
> 
> Hope you enjoyed the little trip to the supermarket - I think we can all agree Zira would be a Waitrose man, while Crowley would squander his dog walking pay on the wonders of the chaotic middle aisle in Lidl, right? Apologies if that reference makes no sense to those of you based outside of Europe, ready and waiting to answer any supermarket-related questions you might have 😂.
> 
> Next chapter is coming on Friday and brings with it walkie talkie code names, Zira's technical ineptitude reaching fever pitch, and late night band practice for Crowley.


	25. Fault Line

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Zira sighed, as if the mere notion of lifting a finger was draining, unless it was to bring a biscuit to his mouth.

**January. Crowley’s Flat, London.**

Crowley eased open the door to the flat to find it as silent as the grave, the bedroom door firmly closed. Zira hadn’t woken up then. The bookseller had a habit of getting up to clean his teeth before clambering back into bed for another hour or two or three, leaving the bedroom door open a crack so Crowley would know he was only dozing, was free to be disturbed if he needed a break from work.

In the ten days that had passed since the fire they’d slowly settled into a routine that just about managed to keep the peace, though Crowley had found himself pacing back and forth in the small bathroom on occasion, counting backwards from ten and reminding himself that he was a patient man, a calm man, a man who was not prone to fits of rage when he came home after a three hour dog walking session to find Zira spread out on the sofa, whimpering plaintively that he’d left his cup of tea in the kitchen and could Crowley please be a dear and fetch it for him?

It wasn’t that Zira was lazy, Crowley knew that. It was more that he thrived on taking life at a sedate pace, particularly now he had absolutely nothing to do while he waited for his insurance claim to be settled. There would be plenty of time in the coming weeks to dash from estate sale to estate sale, auction to auction, following tips that might lead him to track down a set of glorious first editions to help get the new and improved incarnation of Z. Fell and Co. back on its feet when the time came. Until that glorious deposit arrived in his bank account, all he could do was wait, and he planned on doing as much of it from Crowley’s sofa as possible, preferably with a cup of tea in one hand, a biscuit in the other, and Classic FM playing gently in the background.

He was in denial. That much was apparent. He spent far too much time smiling at absolutely nothing, had even laid the newspaper down calmly after failing to complete the final clue of the crossword the night before. That was what had tipped Crowley off that something was definitely wrong. Usually the newspaper would have been flung into the air while Zira clenched his fists in frustration and _almost_ swore. He’d called it a _buggering farce_ the previous week, which was pretty extreme as far as the bookseller and swearing went. That week though, he had remained the picture of serenity, and Crowley was concerned.

The nurse who had checked Zira over on the night of the fire had mentioned it to him. Emotional shock. It could be delayed, she’d said, might not manifest immediately. While Crowley wasn’t sure what emotional shock looked like, he wasn’t convinced that it included cheerily inhaling bourbon biscuits while humming along to Bach. Still, something wasn’t right about Zira’s upbeat demeanour. Crowley hadn’t even seen him open a book since he’d moved in, despite the fact seven boxes of them resided in the space between the sofa and the window. Those boxes of books, that overflow stock Crowley had agreed to stash for him, were all that remained of the bookshop’s inventory. It was pitiful in the scheme of things but it was something, at least.

Crowley had known that he and Zira took life at a different pace, that Zira preferred to move through life with all the urgency of a glacier, while he opted to take every day at breakneck speed, cramming as much activity as he could into each rotation of the world, if only to ensure a good night’s sleep at the end of it. That morning, as Crowley tip-toed back into the flat and quietly unclipped Barnaby’s lead, he stole away in the kitchen, pulled the door closed behind him and sighed at the merciful peace.

In the last week Zira had left the flat precisely three times. Once to accompany Crowley and Barnaby on a short evening walk that involved collecting a takeaway order of sushi on the way, once on an emergency biscuit run after his hand had collided with the bottom of an empty tin while Crowley was out at a client meeting (an _emergency_ that had left Crowley biting his lip when he realised the flat had been left unlocked for half an hour), and once when Crowley had tempted him outside with the promise of brunch at the little cafe around the corner from the flat.

He loved Zira’s company, of course he did, would revel in the warmth of returning home after a freezing afternoon dog walk across London to find Zira cuddled up on the sofa with Barnaby, dozing after a heavy lunch that mostly consisted of bread and cheese. The evenings they spent together, nattering for hours about nothing at all as they ate their way through another one of Tracy’s home-cooked vats of pasta, ignoring whatever they’d chosen to put on TV, were something he looked forward to every day. It was just…he couldn’t remember the last time he’d had a moment to himself. Besides, there was the feeling of having to present the best side of himself, given that he was never more than ten paces away from Zira at any moment. He wanted to be _himself, _of course he did, but he was damned if he was going to put his fledging relationship with Zira to the test by introducing him to the less desirable parts of his personality this soon. The grumpy side. The short-tempered side. The constantly vibrating with existential dread side.

Zira had almost become acquainted with his short-tempered side when he’d returned home from lunch with Sammy the day before to find Zira waiting for him, happily waving a bill in his face and explaining that there was no need for him to pay, he’d already taken care of it.

_It’s already paid. It’s a direct debit. It literally says Nothing to Pay at the top of the letter. Thank you, you sweet angel, for trying, but all you’ve done is make sure I have to get on the phone to them tomorrow to make sure they allocate the credit on my account correctly. _The bookseller had looked far too proud of himself for Crowley to growl out any of the frustrations that were in his mind. Instead he had just closed his eyes and nodded gratefully as he squeezed Zira’s shoulder and took the bill from his hands, depositing it in the folder of paperwork to be shredded.

After loading the dishwasher, wiping down the worktops and enjoying a solitary cup of tea while peering nosily out of the window at the couple having a fight on the street below, Crowley picked up the walkie talkie that had been left on top of the microwave. He didn’t need hours of alone time to feel rejuvenated; sometimes an early morning cuppa and a dose of neighbourhood gossip was enough.

“Mr Fell, do you read me, Mr Fell?”

A moment passed and then Zira’s voice buzzed out from the device, sounding very much like he’d only just woken up. “That’s not my codename, Crowley.”

_This_, Crowley thought to himself, _is exactly why I can’t stay annoyed at him for longer than thirty seconds, even if he has no concept of personal space_. He raised the walkie talkie to his lips, purring his response into the microphone. “Good morning, Agent Angel Face, how do you like your eggs?”

“Good morning, Sergeant Snake Hips. Scrambled, if you please.”

***

Crowley hissed out an expletive as he looked down at his phone, found an e-mail from a regular client asking for a rush job on a piece of work he’d been supposed to have an entire week to complete. They needed it back in forty eight hours, were happy to double the budget if he could fit it into his schedule.

_For double the budget there’s not much I wouldn’t do,_ he thought, firing off a response confirming the work. It would do him good to knuckle down to some real work after his slow start to the year, which was only partially down to his new flatmate. He always liked to ease off in January, give himself a couple of weeks of breathing space before heading back into the gruelling pace his day job demanded. He glanced across at Zira, who was stretching out horizontally on the sofa, picking a biscuit crumb out from underneath one nail as he whistled along with the breakfast news jingle. Not the best working environment, not by any stretch of the imagination. Perhaps if he gave Zira something to do, something to occupy his time, he might not be so bored.

“Angel,” he said casually, reaching out to pick the bookseller’s phone off of the coffee table and toss it into his lap. “How about you make a start on the website today? You could start scanning some of the leftover books into the inventory. At least there’ll be something up there while you’re waiting, eh?”

“I suppose I could.” Zira sighed, as if the mere notion of lifting a finger was draining, unless it was to bring a biscuit to his mouth. “I’m afraid I don’t know how, Crowley. Maybe tomorrow.”

“No, no, I can show you,” Crowley said quickly, reaching behind the sofa to pull a box of books up and plonk it down on the sofa between them. He picked up the first title, pressed it into one of Zira’s hands and then sat back. “It’s really easy, so easy, I’m pretty sure Barnaby could do it. All you need to do is open the BookScanner app.”

“I’ve never heard of that before in my life.”

“You have, you have. It’s the…remember the app I made from scratch, just for you? We tested it in the shop one evening, remember? You scan the books, they appear magically for sale on the website, remember?” _Please remember._

Zira thought for a moment, one finger tapping against his chin as he replayed the night in his mind. Yes. Crowley had been wearing a red shirt under his jumper, one lapel of the collar had got caught in the neckline. He’d unhooked it for him. “Yes, of course.”

“Great, so open the app. Yes, very good. Now, you see the black box on the screen? No, no, that’s the option to go back to the last screen. That black box, you see? Great. Hold up the book so the ISBN is in…no, no you need your phone to be in front of the book…”

It should not have taken Zira half an hour to grasp the concept and yet, there they were, thirty minutes later, Crowley one more failed attempt away from curling into the foetal position. Thankfully, the nineteenth time was the charm and Zira whooped proudly as the book’s data rendered itself in the system and then, in a very understated yet momentous moment, it became the first title to grace the virtual catalogue of the website.

“Brilliant,” Crowley breathed, feeling his will to live slowly return. “Now, you’ve got seven boxes to work through, will probably take you all day, won’t it? I’ll just crack on with some work, wouldn’t want to distract you, got a bit of a deadline coming up.”

He popped his headphones into his ears before Zira had a chance to respond, turning his attention to his laptop to give the client’s brief one last read before he started his first project of the year.

“Crowley?”

Ten minutes later he heard Zira’s voice over the white noise he had playing quietly in the background but opted to continue typing as if he hadn’t heard a thing. He was in the zone, finally, and wanted to make as much progress as possible before his dog walking rounds began that lunchtime.

“Crowley?” Zira’s voice again, louder that time, accompanied by a nudge to his knee that he couldn’t ignore.

“Yes, angel?” he asked patiently, pulling one earbud free.

“My phone battery’s dying.”

“Did you charge it last night?”

“Well, no, but…”

“Then why don’t you charge it now?” His words came out through gritted teeth, lips forced into a smile.

“Yes.” Zira nodded, as if the concept of charging his phone was brand new information. “Good idea. Do you want a drink while we wait for it to charge?”

“Sure, but while _you_ wait for it to charge, _I_ really need to get on, so…” He trailed off, nodding down towards his screen and slipping the headphone back into his ear. _White noise. Sweet, focusing white noise._

“Crowley?”

“Yes?” he snapped, ripping the headphone out a moment later, looking up to find Zira standing in front of the sofa with a cup in each hand.

“Well, sorry for making you a drink. I shan’t bother in future if answering me is so arduous.” Zira raised his eyebrows, pursing his lips sulkily as he deposited a cup on the coffee table in front of Crowley.

“I’m sorry, angel, I just have a lot to get done. Can we be quiet for a bit, please? I can go and work in the bedroom if you want the TV on, I don’t mind.”

“No, no, don’t be silly. I’ll be perfectly quiet. You won’t even know I’m here.”

They shared a smile and Crowley reached out to squeeze Zira’s hand before returning to his laptop as the bookseller unplugged his phone from the charger and picked up the next book to scan.

Forty minutes later Crowley sighed contentedly as his fingers flew over the keys. He enjoyed a break from work every now and then but there was nothing like getting into the flow of a new project and seeing it begin to take shape. It drove him, the motivation for client feedback, for ticking off tasks, for collapsing into bed in the early hours of the morning surrounded by the lovely warm feeling of a good job well done.

_Thunk._

_Thunk._

_Thunk._

Crowley’s eyes snapped up as he slammed the lid of his laptop closed and wrenched his headphones out of his ears, slinging them onto the coffee table. On the floor between the sofa and the bedroom door Zira was gleefully hunched over a box of books, holding his phone up to scan them before depositing each one on the floor from a great height. A very unnecessary height. A height that was guaranteed to cause an echoing crash with each tome.

“Are you…are you serious? What are you _doing?_ Are you trying to make as much noise as possible?” _Stay calm, don’t do it, you don’t want to argue with him._

Zira wheeled around to face him, an expression on his face suggesting he had the audacity to be irritated by the interruption. “What does it look like I’m doing, Crowley? I’m doing exactly what you told me to. I’m scanning the books.”

“As loudly as possible.”

“Oh, I’m sorry, is my existence too noisy for you? Heaven forbid I actually treat this place like the home you asked me to.”

“Please, don’t be such a drama queen. I’m just asking you to keep it down while I'm working.”

“_Keep it down, angel. Tidy up, angel. Stop leaving toothpaste marks in the sink, angel. _Is there anything about me living here that isn’t _wrong_?”

Crowley growled in frustration, rubbing one eye with the side of his hand as he fought a losing battle with the notion of staying calm in the face of imminent conflict. He had a choice: take a deep breath and let the argument die away or give in to the compulsion to have the last word. As it happened, compulsion won out. “Listen to yourself! I’m not asking for the world, am I? Let me concentrate on work when I have a deadline, tidy up after yourself and, for god’s sake, stop leaving toothpaste in the sink. Do you…do you not know how to rinse when you’re finished?”

“I know how to rinse! I’m not distracting you, I’m getting on with my own work, thank you very much. I’m quite happy with our working arrangement, you’re the one with the problem.”

“I don’t have a _problem_. I just asked you to keep it down and you thought _throwing_ books around was appropriate.”

“I think you'll find, Crowley, that I wasn’t throwing them. I was placing them upon the ground.”

“As gently as an earthquake.”

Pressing his lips together until they were nothing but a thin line of rage, Zira grabbed a book from the box and clambered to his feet, holding it out at arm’s length and staring Crowley dead in the eyes as he dropped it from waist height. The book smashed against the floorboards and a little cloud of dust rose up around it. Dust that had not, Crowley was certain of, been there until Zira and his chaos had swept through the flat.

“Zira. I am just asking you to be quiet. There is no need to start a noise war.”

Zira bent down to pick up the book, held his phone out in front of it to scan the back cover as he looked around as if he couldn’t fathom where Crowley’s voice was coming from. “Oh, I’m sorry, Crowley, you’ll have to speak up. I can’t hear you over the sound of my LOUD SCANNING.”

“This is ridiculous. You’re being ridiculous.”

“Oh, _I’m _being ridiculous, am I?”

“Yes! I just asked you to be quiet because I have, in case you didn’t know, a deadline. Do you have any idea how it works, angel, in the real world? Where we don’t have pocketfuls of cash at the ready? Where we actually have to pay rent and budget?”

“You weren’t budgeting when you bought that harmonica.”

“Oh, will you shut up about the bloody harmonica?”

“You think everything is _so_ hard, don’t you? Isn’t it _so_ hard being Crowley with his flat and his dog and his friends and his _jeans?_”

“Do you know what, angel? Yes. Yes, it is hard sometimes. You have no idea what it’s like to have to worry about money, to _really_ worry. You just…do whatever it is you do and somehow you always land on your feet.”

Crowley realised after the words had tumbled out of his mouth that he might have gone a step too far. Then Zira’s face went slack for a second before he tightened his jaw in anger and Crowley understood that, yes, he had definitely gone too far.

“I think we both know, Crowley, that having to watch my home and my business burn in front of me wasn’t what you would call landing on your feet. I’m sorry that me being here is _so_ stressful for you. To think, we almost made it an entire fortnight before you got sick of me being here.”

“Angel…” Crowley trailed off, reached for Zira’s hand. The bookseller snatched it away and Crowley sank down on the sofa as silence wound its way around them. And then, a moment later…

_Thunk. Thunk. Thunk._

He looked up in disbelief and there, with a resentful smirk pasted on his face, was Zira, slamming book after book out of the box and onto the floor, relishing the sound as each title collided with the ground. When he saw Crowley looking he shot him a glare that was near enough a challenge, then dropped one more particularly heavy book from a particularly lofty height.

“That’s it. I’m leaving. I can’t be in here with you any longer.” Crowley shook his head, felt righteous fury grasp at every nerve-ending in his body. He stuffed his laptop into its case, leaned over the back of the sofa to grab his guitar and strode furiously towards the door.

“_Fine_. Mind you don’t fall, it’s a long way down from up there on your high horse.”

Crowley stood in the doorway, hands trembling with rage as he tried to think of an appropriately cutting final word. When words failed him he did the next best thing and slammed the door behind him so loudly it almost drowned out the sound of Zira dropping one last book onto the ground.

***

**Mick’s Garage. Crystal Palace, London.**

Crowley tugged Mick’s garage door closed with a sigh, hauling his guitar case behind him with a huff as he flopped down on the threadbare sofa next to Sammy. “All right? Where are the others?”

“Lily’s on her way with pizza, Dan’s getting drinks. What’s wrong with you? You look…weary.”

“I am weary, Sammy. So very, very weary. I walked here.”

“You _walked_? Even with your giraffe legs that must have taken…”

“Two hours, yes.”

“Why did you-”

“Left my car keys in the flat when I stormed out in a rage.”

“Ah.” Sammy nodded wisely, clapped a hand on Crowley’s knee as if he was a fount of wisdom when it came to relationship conflict which, given his divorce had been finalised only months earlier, he was. “First fight?”

Crowley sighed, let his head flop back against the sofa as he stared up at the ceiling, eyes tracing the criss-cross of joists up above them. “Mmm. Stupid, really. Wanted to go back and apologise as soon as I left. I just…needed space.”

“Well, it’s not easy, is it, what you two are doing? Maybe you should, I don’t know, work out of the house once a week, give each other some space.”

He felt it rise up again then, that frustration of being displaced from his own flat, at feeling like a stranger in his own home. “Yes…but why should _I_ be the one to…”

“Oh, come on, mate, you’re being a bit of a dick. Where is he supposed to go?”

_He’s right. I hate it when I'm wrong. I especially hate it when Sammy’s the one who’s right._ “Ughhh, I know, I know. You’re right. I just…he’s so _messy_, Sammy. And he’s _so_ noisy. He can’t even be bored quietly. He has to keep…sighing like he’s going to wither away if I don’t entertain him. And he always leaves a streak of toothpaste in this _one_ spot in the sink. Every night. Never in the morning. Always at night. What’s he doing in there?”

“It’s toothpaste. Does it matter?”

“Well, _no_ but-”

“Did you ask him to stop doing it? Nicely, I mean. Not in your usual style of bottling things up and unleashing them like a tornado weeks later.”

“Well…”

“You unleashed on him, didn’t you?”

“I see I picked the perfect moment to walk in.” Lily banged the door open, carrying a stack of pizza boxes in one hand as she fixed Crowley with a delighted grin. “Wild night in for the hubbies, was it? Spicing things up after all that wedding planning?”

“No. Well, yes. But no. No hubbies, for god’s sake, Lily.”

“I’m just saying.” She shrugged, widened her eyes innocently and flapped the lid of a pizza box open, momentarily distracted for long enough to pull a slice free and take a bite of cheesy, salty pizza.

“You’re always just saying.”

“You love each other, what’s the hold up?”

“We don’t _love _each other. We just like each other. A lot. I don’t know, more than a lot. Except not at the moment. At the moment we’re not talking.” Crowley sighed, it was becoming a habit, then sank his teeth into a slice of pizza. It tasted like heaven, given that he hadn't eaten since that morning's feast of eggs on toast. Since Zira's arrival his diet had taken a shift even further into the land of beige and he made a mental note, a solemn promise, to reactivate that dreaded fitness regime he'd been half-heartedly attempting for the best part of six months without much to show for it.

“Sounds like love to me,” Sammy pointed out, eyebrows raised as he recounted his own experiences in the muddy world of love and commitment.

“I don’t know what it is. I don’t think he does either. We’re just taking things slow and seeing what happens. No pressure, nice and simple. Besides, his entire world has just been burned to a crisp, now is not the time for…the commitment talk.”

Sammy and Lily wailed in tandem, with only Lily having the ability to render their joint frustration into actual words. “Bloody hell, you and your talks.”

“They’re important! They remove all complications from the arrangement.”

“Oh, yes, well you’ve certainly done away with complications by asking him to move in with you.”

“I did not ask him to _move in_ with me. His home burned down. What else was I going to do? Besides, it’s nice having him around. Most of the time.”

“Oh, I’m sure it is. I’m sure you’re really helping him get through the trauma. All the shagging, so thoughtful of you.”

Dan arrived then, clattering through the door with a crate of beers tucked under one arm. Crowley shot him a look of eternal gratitude as Lily reached out to grab a drink, distracted just long enough for him to change the subject.

“Right, let’s crack on with this, shall we? Now, as it’s my turn I’ve picked out a few new…”

Sammy looked down at the setlist on the sheet of paper Crowley had unfolded on his knees. He looked from Dan to Lily, found the same amused expression on their faces, then turned to Crowley with a heavy sigh, resting a supportive hand on his arm. “I’m going to ask you something, Little Brother, and it’s imperative you’re honest with us. How many hours did you spend meticulously crafting a setlist that’s a thinly veiled confession of your undying devotion to your very oblivious husband?”

“No...it’s not. It’s nothing like that. They’re just good songs.” Crowley felt his palms dampen at the embarrassingly accurate assumption, thought back to the evening he _had_ spent creating the perfect playlist before his phone had rung with Zira on the other end of it, sounding desperate and lost as the shop burned before him. He felt a pang in his chest, undercut with the guilt of storming out earlier that afternoon, the fear that he might return home to find the flat empty and Zira’s few boxes of donated possessions gone. _I am such an idiot, such a grumpy, short-tempered idiot._

“Mate,” Dan said gently, reaching out to squeeze Crowley’s shoulder. “You put Whitesnake on here. That’s serious business.”

“It’s a…it’s a joke. Just something he said to me the other day…he’ll get it. Not that I chose any of the songs because of him. _Shit_.”

As they stood up and assumed their positions: Sammy settling behind the drum kit, Crowley and Lily shouldering their guitar straps, and Dan curling one hand around the microphone stand, Crowley caught his three bandmates sharing an exasperating three-way glance as the first song kicked in over the speakers and his carefully curated secret plans became anything but.

“Lord have mercy, I’ve fallen in love with you. I can’t keep my hands to myself, baby, I’m so screwed.” Dan sang the opening lines of the first song on the setlist, the lyrics becoming warped by a grin that grew wider with every word, and all Crowley could do was keep his eyes fixed resolutely on the ground as the three of them turned in tandem to stare at him until he could barely keep his own guilty smile at bay.

***

Zira had been laying in bed staring up at the ceiling for some time when he heard the front door swing open and, after a brief pitter patter of canine feet was met with a frantic _don’t jump up, boy, _click closed, followed by the heavy sound of the lock being twisted into place.

_He’s back. Now what?_ Zira turned onto his side, trained his eyes on the bottom of the door and waited for a chink of light to fan out across the carpet, for a heartbeat of silence before Crowley would come dashing into the bedroom and their apologies would cross paths and they’d laugh, embracing each other and promising to never be so stupid as to fight again. Only...no chink of light appeared and Crowley’s footsteps echoed away from the bedroom rather than towards it. _Maybe I went too far earlier with the book slamming. Maybe he wanted me to leave while he was gone. Maybe that was why he stayed away for so long, to give me time to pack up my things._

After dithering over the matter for what felt like millennia, Zira decided to muster all of the bravery at his disposal and go to Crowley, as it seemed as though Crowley had no intention of going to him.

He padded heavily through the flat, stifling a yawn and squinting as he waited for his eyes to adjust to the harsh glare in the kitchen, found Crowley reclined against a worktop, bathed in one of the kitchen’s spotlights. His shoulders were braced against the smooth wood of the kitchen counter, feet resting against the kick board on the opposite side of the narrow room. One hand was curved around the base of a bowl and the other was furiously shovelling cereal into his mouth as if he hadn’t eaten for days.

“Thought I heard you clanging about,” Zira said, daring to glance fleetingly in his direction as he pulled a glass from the cupboard and filled it under the tap, pointedly wiping residual water from the base before he set it down on the worktop.

Crowley looked lazily across at him before rolling his eyes and going back to gloomily munching on cereal. His hair was wet, drooping across his forehead, and his damp t-shirt clung to the contours of his collarbones. Zira stole a peek through the window to find rain streaming down, lit up by the glow of a nearby streetlight.

“How do you manage to look miserable even when you’re eating cereal?”

“It’s my Scorpio moon,” he bit back sarcastically through a mouthful of sugary milk, bringing up a finger to wipe away a stray bead of milk from his lip.

Zira frowned at him, shaking his head at such foolish notions as birth charts and moon signs. “Cheer up, You’re eating Frosties, for god’s sake.”

When Crowley spoke again his voice was soft, streaked with worry, and Zira melted before he’d even finished his sentence. “I thought you might have left before I got back.”

He thought back to that night two and a half weeks ago, New Year’s Eve, what they had come to call the First Night. God, it felt like years ago, the way they had laid together afterwards, the way Crowley had whispered his fears of Zira growing bored with him, of casting him aside when he was ready to move onto something else, something better than he could ever be.

He reached across to take the half-finished bowl of cereal from him, laid it down on the countertop as he took his hand, lacing their fingers together, felt the chill in Crowley’s skin against his own warm palm. “Stuck with me, I’m afraid. For better, for worse. For clutter, for neatness. I thought you might have wanted me out, if I’m honest.”

Crowley turned to him, eyes serious as his other hand lost itself in the thick curls of Zira's hair. “No. No, I like you being here, even if you are messy and loud and think the working day begins at eleven in the morning. I know I can be a moody bastard but…” He trailed off, shoulders slumping as his words ran dry.

Zira smiled, squeezed his hand. “It’s your Scorpio moon?”

A laugh, more of an exhale than anything else, but it felt like a bridge all the same. “I’m sorry, angel, for what I said earlier. I wasn’t being fair to you. I don’t want you to go, I want you here.”

“Oh, I don’t know if you were unfair, I was being a bit of a nuisance. I’m just so…frustrated. There’s nowhere for me to go, there’s nothing for me to do, all I _can_ do is sit and wait. All this time I thought I was happy with taking life at a slow pace but this…I need _something_ to do, Crowley.” Zira balled his fists at his side, felt a thrum of energy that had no way of being spent. Inside day after day, waiting for the phone to ring, wondering when his life could get back on track, it was the sort of limbo that Zira had never expected to be hanging in. His lifetime of carefully laid plans ensured there would be no untoward surprises in his life, absolutely nothing unexpected, nothing to deviate from his schedule of sleeping and eating and perhaps selling the odd book if he was lucky. That was, at least, until his world had shaken the previous summer and Crowley had sauntered into his life, ushering forth a trail of unrelated catastrophes.

“Maybe you could come dog walking with me some afternoons. Fresh air, blood pumping, a few hours outdoors, what do you think?”

“I’d like that.” Zira stepped between Crowley’s legs, leaning against his chest as he felt the dog walker’s arms wrap around his back. They stood like that for a moment, Zira quiet at last, before Crowley remembered something, digging around in his pocket.

“I almost forgot. Got this cut for you earlier.” He cradled one of Zira’s hands, uncurling his fingers and depositing a shiny silver key into his palm. “Now you can come and go whenever you want. I mean it, treat this place like home. Treat _me_ like home as well. Don’t be afraid I’m going to ask you to leave just because we’ve had a tiff. It’s you and me, okay?”

“Even when I’m too loud with the books?” There was an edge to Zira’s voice but the prickly tone faded away as he snuck a glance down at the key clutched in his hand, swallowed away an excited smile. _My own key_, he thought. _He really does want me here. Home._

“_Especially_ when you’re too loud with the books. Can’t resist a rebel in angel’s clothing, can I?”

Zira pursed his lips, looked down at the tattered band t-shirt he’d thrifted from Crowley’s drawer, the white logo of a falling Icarus bold against the soft black fabric. “Yes, very angelic.”

“You know what I mean.” Crowley laughed, pressing a kiss to Zira’s hair. “So, we survived our first lovers’ tiff. Another milestone.”

“And I didn’t even need to show you what I did with my afternoon. I was frantic you were going to ask me to leave so I decided to be productive. Turns out all you had to do was put the fear of god into me.” Zira tugged at Crowley’s hand, pulled him into the living room and switched the light on.

The first thing Crowley noticed was Barnaby guiltily hopping down from the sofa and plopping down in his bed as if he’d been there the entire night. The second thing he noticed was how perfectly organised the room looked. The boxes of books were carefully stacked up behind the sofa, not a speck of dust was gathered in the corners of the room and all of Zira’s chaotic clutter had been neatly tidied away. It looked, save for the book on the arm of the sofa with a little pair of glasses closed on top, as it always had, that outer calm smoothing over the storm that he felt swirling inside himself so often.

“You,” Crowley murmured, “are amazing.”

“And _you_ need to dry off before you catch a cold.” Zira ducked into the bathroom, emerged a moment later with a towel over one arm. He nudged Crowley over to the sofa, sat down next to him and gently rubbed his hair dry, relishing the chance to take care of him. He was always so _together_, so organised. It was nice, Zira thought, smiling to himself as Crowley sighed happily, leaning his head back against Zira’s touch, to be the one taking charge for once. “Oh, I never asked, how was band practice?”

“It…was…fine.” Crowley’s voice, though he employed every ounce of control to keep it in line, seemed to rise an octave with every word. It had been one thing to put the setlist together as an abstract concept, pulling songs from his memory that held a new meaning in light of his devotion that had quietly bloomed over the months but to hear those soul-baring lyrics sung aloud knowing the object of said devotion would hear them in just over a week…that was a different matter all together. 

_Then again_, he thought, letting his eyes close as he revelled in the feeling of Zira’s hands working the towel through his hair, the warmth of the bookseller’s body pressed close to his back, _what is stroking the rain from somebody’s hair if not its own kind of devotion?_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Happy Friday, folks, we made it to the weekend!
> 
> This whole 'shacking up' lark might not be as smooth sailing as our favourite human vessels thought but...we love mature conflict resolution, don't we?
> 
> Next chapter is coming on SUNDAY! (Sorry, I said Tuesday before - ignore me :D)
> 
> I hope you've all had a splendid week and have lots of fun weekend plans - what are you all up to?
> 
> (P.S. Luninarie, I hope you have the most wonderful day tomorrow, I'll be thinking of you!)


	26. Lucky Stars

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Crowley turned the name over in his mouth a couple of times, wondered why it was striking such a chord. He racked his brain but there was nothing that sprang immediately to mind. “It does sound familiar, doesn’t it?”

**February. Crowley’s Flat, London.**

In the wake of what they had dubbed Bookgate Crowley and Zira had struck a peaceful accord, despite the fact they had instantly broken their carefully crafted rules by waking up in bed together ten nights out of the last fourteen. Crowley would spend one day of the week working out of a nearby co-working space, while Zira would spend another day meeting with Tracy, who had a few ideas for how he could relaunch the shop with a ‘few little tweaks’ to draw in a new audience. They had worked wonders, those two days apart each week, had created space, given their relationship lungs with which to take in great gulps of air, to yearn for each other to return, had created that palpable excitement to hear footsteps in the hall outside, to hear a key turning in the lock. _Yes, yes, you’re back, come here. Tell me about your day, god, I missed you._

When Crowley woke up that morning to find Zira’s side of the bed empty, the duvet carefully replaced so he wouldn’t wake to find a cold stretch of mattress, he rolled onto Zira’s pillow and pressed his face to it, breathing in the bookseller’s scent and revelling in the joy of longing for him, of someone being his to miss.

On the mornings when he would wake up alone he’d formed a habit of quietly easing the bedroom door open to peer into the living room in search of Barnaby; if the dog was gone, his lead missing from the coat hook next to the door, Crowley would tiptoe back to bed and enjoy a blissful lay in, knowing the pride Zira took in getting to take over the morning routine, even if it invariably ended in wet paw prints on the sofa and burnt toast in bed. Still, it was the thought that mattered and, to Crowley, it mattered immeasurably.

***

“Oh, f- _fiddlesticks_,” Zira hissed, turning back to the frying pan after momentarily feeding bread into the toaster to find the eggs that had been previously liquid were a solid mass, congealed onto the pan. “How the _hell_ does he do this?”

The four eggs he’d dutifully whisked together, added a splash of milk and a knob of butter to before pouring them into the pan and promptly forgetting to stir them, were the last that they had and, so, overcooked eggs would have to do. Zira sighed, wondering when he might be able to pull a breakfast together that didn’t have at least one troublesome element to it. Some days even toast felt like a wild beast that ripped free of its restraints the second his back was turned. He’d considered eggs and soldiers one morning, before shaking his head and uttering a little chuckle of derision, he knew his limits and soft-boiled eggs lay far beyond him.

Crowley made cooking look so effortless, would even have time to turn away from the hob to give him a quick kiss before turning back and giving the concoction a quick stir, transforming the formless eggs into fluffy clouds of creamy deliciousness. When Zira attempted to replicate their favourite breakfast recipe he would emerge from the kitchen with a tension headache blooming in the forefront of his brain, red-faced and ready for a nap to sleep off the stress.

That morning, as he clattered through the living room holding a tray of chewy eggs and chargrilled toast, buttered thickly enough that he hoped the burnt taste wouldn’t be detectable, he seriously considered walking Barnaby via the local cafe and secretly ordering two takeaway breakfasts next time he rose at the crack of dawn to beat Crowley to breakfast duty. It was barely even eight thirty in the morning, for heaven’s sake, how in the world was he to be expected to produce anything vaguely edible?

“Good morning, my handsome devil,” Zira purred, all traces of cooking rage dissipating as he bumped the bedroom door open with the tray and found Crowley propped up against the headboard, irresistible bedhead in full effect. “One of those breakfast in bed kind of mornings.”

“Mmm,” he agreed, reaching out to take the tray and resting it against his knees as he pulled Zira down for a kiss. “It smells heavenly.”

Crowley tried to be an honest person. He didn’t have time to indulge in deceit, found it tiresome having to keep track of lies; that was unless Zira’s cooking skills were the subject of the lie. He would never, under any circumstances, forgive himself if he did anything other than smile and ‘_mmm_’ his way through whatever Zira deposited in front of him. There may not have been a lot of skill in his cooking but there was effort and love, which was infinitely more important as far as he was concerned. Besides, the amount of butter swimming between the eggs and toast was enough to hide a multitude of sins. Coupled with a big gulp of orange juice and it was almost pleasant.

“You’re a bad liar.” Zira raised an eyebrow pointedly, looked down at his own slice of blackened toast and dropped it back onto his plate with a clatter. “One of these days I’ll get the settings right.”

“Don’t know what you’re talking about.” Crowley coughed, felt a chunk of egg stick in his gullet. He swallowed another gulp of juice. Better. “Good for you, charcoal. Good for the…immune system.”

“Well, thank you Doctor Crowley, you’re too kind.”

Crowley leaned across, pressed an ashy kiss to Zira’s cheek, wiped the black crumbs away with one finger. “You could serve me a plate of celery and it would still be heavenly. It’s not the food, it’s the company, the ritual of breakfast in bed. On a Monday of all days, what a way to start the week, eh?”

“And what a week it’s going to be.” Zira swung his legs over the side of the bed, laughing as he padded over the wardrobe and pulled out a shirt and pair of trousers he’d salvaged from the more understated end of the offerings Raphael had brought over for him. While wafting around the flat in a smoking jacket pretending to be a Victorian ghost was fun, it wasn’t particularly conducive to productivity. “Orders to pack up, your night in the spotlight on Saturday. Aren’t we delightfully busy? Oh, before I forget, I picked this up yesterday on my way back. I was too, er, _distracted_ when you got home last night to show you.”

He disappeared from the bedroom then, leaving Crowley to lean back against the pillows and smile inanely as he relived the most deliciously sordid details of the previous night’s _distraction_. He was just getting to the particularly euphoric moment when Zira had done something quite unexpected with his tongue when…

“Here we are, I hope you don’t mind. I know how much you liked it, I thought you might want to hang it somewhere.” Zira padded back into the bedroom, a small black frame held under one arm that he passed to Crowley as he sank down next to him on the edge of the bed, one foot tucked up underneath his opposite knee.

Crowley turned the frame over, felt a little jump in his chest as he realised what Zira had done for him, how he had spoken about it so casually, as if he’d popped to the shops to pick up a fresh pint of milk. A heavy black wooden frame, something far higher quality than Crowley would ever have treated himself to, bordered the sketch Luci had drawn of the flat when they had visited for the first time and fallen in love with the mid-morning rays of light that filtered through the living room windows.

True to Raphael’s prediction, Luci had spent the rest of their visit curled against the arm of the sofa, diligently sketching away as if they were in the studio, pausing every few strokes to gaze around the room, tugging out all the beauty that Crowley had long-since forgotten to notice on those busy days when he didn’t have time to see the way the light caused the floorboards to gleam like a golden pathway, how the severe edges of his coffee table were the foil for the softness of his sofa, all deep cushions and fleece-lined throws that had been a tangled nest of comfort on that day when they had dropped by unannounced to show their solidarity, to offer gifts of support.

“Angel, this is…thank you.” He trailed off, pausing to collect himself before he laid the frame down on the bed and reached out to wrap his arms around Zira’s shoulders, pressing his lips to the bookseller’s neck. “Where shall we hang it?”

It was Zira’s turn to feel a swell of emotion then, a flutter of excitement at being involved in the decision, of there being something in the flat that they had decided on together. He looked around the bedroom, searched the walls for the perfect spot. “How about over there, next to the window? It’d be the first thing you see when you wake up.”

“Hmm, we could put it there.” Crowley sat up, snaked an arm around Zira’s waist and tugged him down until their faces were inches apart, the soft weight of Zira’s chest pressed to his. “But I already have the first thing I want to see when I wake up right here.”

“Oh, now play fair, how am I supposed to resist that?” Zira smiled against Crowley’s skin, letting the words jumble together before he closed his eyes, lips meeting lips in a kiss that ran deep and unhurried, as if they had all the time in the world, until Zira pulled back and glanced down at the clock on the bedside table. “To be continued, I’m afraid. I know how you feel about deadlines, my dear, wouldn’t want you to be late with work, would we?”

_You sweet, cheeky little shit_, Crowley thought, grinning to himself as he watched Zira waltz out of the room looking very pleased with himself indeed. _I’ll get you back for that._

***

“Tape, please.” Zira held out a hand and Crowley dutifully passed him a roll of overtly expensive Z. Fell and Co. branded packaging tape that he ran across the join at the top of a small cardboard box to seal it closed, smoothing it out with the back of his hand and smiling at the shop’s logo that stared back at him ten times over. It was a small comfort, to see the name of the shop still in existence, at least. Orders for the meagre offerings on the website had begun to roll in, slowly, which was largely down to Tracy and her affinity to upsell anything to her wide network of medium, astrologer and miscellaneous stargazer friends, as Zira liked to call them. “I will never use the word stargazer as a derogatory term again.”

“They really came through for you, didn’t they, the old stargazer community?” Crowley mused, sauntering back from the printer with an address label held in one hand. “How many more to go?”

“Just two.” Zira glanced up at Crowley’s laptop, where the previous day’s orders were listed on the screen. Five orders, twelve books in total. It wasn’t a windfall but there were a couple of titles there that were rare enough not to be sniffed at. “Any day now and I should hear about the settlement, then I can really make a start. I don’t think it would hurt, would it, setting up an astrology section? Witchcraft, occult…there’s a market for it.”

“I don’t know why you’re so down on it.” Crowley looked up from his phone, where he was scrolling through e-mails, responding to the odd one that was simple enough to thumb out a quick reply to. With Zira unable to splurge on a new computer until his capital arrived from the insurance claim, he was relegated to using Crowley’s _hideously modern_ laptop to keep on top of the website. It was a peaceful enough arrangement, Crowley using the time to recline on the sofa and sip his way through a cup of tea while Zira caught up with the latest goings on from the world of rare books. It never took long. He would tire of using the trackpad within fifteen minutes and slide the laptop back across the coffee table, cursing Apple and all of the havoc it brought with it.

“Oh, come on Crowley, it’s all hogwash.” He bundled the completed orders into the large tote bag Crowley had donated for the purpose of ferrying parcels to the post office each day after work. It was a temporary arrangement, something that would be replaced with a courier service once the volume of orders increased, but for now it was something they both looked forward to. For Crowley, it gave him a fixed end to the working day, removing the temptation to keep ploughing on through the evening. For Zira, it was a pleasant stroll through Crowley’s neighbourhood, another opportunity to walk hand in hand and revel in the jealous looks he spotted on occasion. _Yes, _he would think smugly, flashing onlookers a blissful smile, _your eyes do not deceive you, we are, in fact, this sickeningly happy._

“All I’m saying is, the fortune teller at your event in the shop told me I was going to meet an angel. And now look. Shacked up and everything. That’s not a coincidence, is it?”

“A coincidence is exactly what it is.” Zira rolled his eyes, keeping a smile at bay until he was sure Crowley wasn’t looking. “There is absolutely nothing plausible whatsoever about…”

_Bzzzt. Bzzzt._

“Man of the hour.” Crowley raised an eyebrow as Zira reached across to retrieve his phone. “Two texts in one day, angel, what’s got into you?”

“Veritable social butterfly. Ah, it’s Raphael again. He’s…Oh, now that’s interesting.” He fell silent, bringing his phone close to his face and reading the text three times through before he pulled Crowley’s laptop onto his thighs, typing out an address at the exact opposite of the breakneck speed with which Crowley worked. “Now, where have I heard that name before?”

“What is it?” Crowley asked, shifting down to the end of the sofa to peer over the arm at Zira, who was sitting against the wall with his legs stretched out across the floorboards, the debris of packing tape and scissors scattered next to him.

“An estate sale,” he murmured, looking over the laptop screen for long enough for Crowley to spot the beginning of a smile playing on his lips. “Raphael got chatting with a chap at the gallery this morning, thought it might be a good opportunity for me to pick up some new stock. I’ll just have to hope the damn insurance money has arrived by then, won’t I?”

It was something Crowley found fascinating, the research that went into curating a valuable inventory of books like those Zira dealt in. Over the months he’d spent hours asking Zira questions about everything from estate sales to auctions, had spent an entire afternoon being regaled with stories from private consultations. It was a whole new world, well, a whole _old_ world, really, something so absolutely opposite from his own day to day work that he found it as alluring as he did foreign.

“I can drive you, if you like. You might need the space, right? Easier than getting the train.”

Zira gently snapped the lid of the laptop closed, beamed up at Crowley. “That sounds lovely. We could make a day of it, stop for dinner on the way back. It’s not too far, we should be able to do it in a day.”

“Where is it? Outside the city?”

“Mmm. Oxfordshire.” Zira nodded, looking down at Raphael’s text one more time. “Some place called Tadfield. Looks perfectly picturesque. A jolly to the countryside sounds rather nice, doesn’t it?”

“Tadfield. Tadfield…” Crowley turned the name over in his mouth a couple of times, wondered why it was striking such a chord. He racked his brain but there was nothing that sprang immediately to mind. “It _does_ sound familiar, doesn’t it?”

“I can’t quite place it.” Zira fell silent for a moment, then shrugged, passing the laptop back to Crowley and heading into the kitchen to boil the kettle. “One of the great mysteries of the universe.”

***

“How are you doing, son? Any news yet?”

Zira hooked a finger through Barnaby’s collar and gently coaxed him away from Mick as he swung the door to the flat open and waved the man inside, holding Barnaby at bay until the door was safely closed behind them.

“Nothing yet, I’m afraid. Any day though, hopefully. Come in, come in, what do you want to drink?” Zira took the overflowing crate of vegetables out of Mick’s hands, lowered it carefully onto the dining table before pulling out a chair and gesturing for him to sit down. He’d grown accustomed to Mick’s weekly visits to pass the bounty of his allotment onto Crowley, had noticed the way the number of vegetables had quietly grown larger and larger since his own arrival to the household. “These look absolutely wonderful. Did I tell you what Crowley did the other night with those courgettes you brought last week? Nothing but a bit of butter and, oh, you wouldn’t _believe_-”

“You don’t…you don’t even hear yourself, do you?” Crowley cut in then, emerging from the kitchen as Mick’s shoulders shook with laughter. “I _sautéed_ the courgettes, just to be clear.”

“Well, I’m glad you made good use out of them.” Mick pressed his lips together to stifle a grin, while Zira looked between them as if he couldn’t fathom what he might have said to cause such an uproar.

“Tea?” Crowley asked, disappearing back into the kitchen without waiting for a response. It was a given, really. The day tea was turned down was the day humanity was truly lost, in Crowley’s opinion. And Zira’s opinion. And all of London’s opinion, come to that.

“So, young man, are you looking forward to seeing your fella on stage on Saturday?” Mick asked, leaning one large arm against the dining room table as he reached the other down to rub Barnaby gently between the ears, while the dog leaned his chin against Mick’s shins, his eyes closed in bliss.

“Well, yes, I am. Very much so.” Zira dropped his voice then, leaned over the table as he whispered. “I’m just, er, a little concerned about the…groupies. From what the others were saying…”

Mick threw his head back then, roaring with laughter that echoed around the flat like thunder. Friendly thunder, but thunder all the same. “Oh, don’t you pay those meddlers any mind. They like winding him up about his _fans_. You’ll be fine, just stick with me if it makes you feel any better. Like flies on shit, you know, for guitarists. Something hard-wired.”

“I think it’s the hips.” Zira nodded sagely, glancing over his shoulder and swiftly changing the subject as Crowley’s footsteps grew closer. “So, what’s on the menu this week?”

After depositing three steaming mugs of tea on the table, Crowley pulled up a chair and sprawled across it, delving into the box of vegetables to discover what had been harvested from the little allotment that kept on giving. “Leeks, parsnips…Ooh, sprouts. Roast dinner on Sunday, angel?”

“I can’t believe you still feel the need to ask me at this point.” Zira turned to Mick then, smiling proudly. “I’m in charge of the gravy.”

“And a very important job it is too, can’t have a roast without gravy.” Mick took a gulp of tea, ferreted around in the biscuit tin until he found an unbroken digestive and then nodded down towards the vegetable crate as he dunked the biscuit in his drink. “Little something extra in there this week. In one of the egg boxes.”

Zira had been part of his life for some time before Crowley finally let him in on the secret of how he made the best scrambled eggs in London: he was loathe to cook with anything other than the eggs that Mick dutifully brought by on a weekly basis, sourced from a friend who had a smallholding on the outskirts of the city. Apparently shop bought eggs just didn’t taste the same, however carefully branded their egg boxes were with all the buzzwords that should denote unparalleled freshness.

“What’s this for?” Crowley asked, digging through one of the boxes and unfurling a rolled twenty pound note, smoothing it out on the table with the back of one hand.

“Have a drink on me. God knows the two of you must be tripping over each other in here. Get out of the flat for a night.”

Zira reached out to give Mick’s hand a squeeze but diverted his course last minute to give him a pat on the forearm instead. Were they at hand squeezing friendliness yet? He wasn’t sure. Perhaps after the gig. Nothing like being protected from a gaggle of groupies to tip you over into hand squeezing territory, after all. “Thank you, Mick, that’s very kind of you.”

He gave the two of them a quick nod, then looked away shyly, staring down into his cup of tea. Crowley slipped the money into the pocket of his jeans, made a mental note to whip up an extra batch of soup to bestow on him the next time he visited. There was a world unspoken behind Mick’s small token, he knew that, knew the man he had come to think of as a role model as well as family was a man of actions over words, a man who showed he cared through gifts of food and hospitality. There wasn’t anything overt in the way Mick cared for them, his rabble of chosen offspring, but there had been those weekends spent teaching the four of them to cook in his chaotic little kitchen, the weekly deliveries of fresh food to make sure they had at least a trifling amount of colour in their diets, the shared Christmases when he knew they didn’t have anywhere else to go, the discreet evenings he would spend listening to them pour out their hearts in the wake of failed relationships, of job losses and grief and a hundred other testing times. He was there, quietly, woven into the background of their lives; so inherently good to the core that Crowley had come to think of him as something of a moral barometer, steering the four of them gently through life’s challenges whenever they reached a fork in the road, whenever the choice was to rise or fall.

***

_Stop trembling, you stupid man_. Zira tutted to himself as he pressed his back to the bedroom door and raised the phone to his ear. It felt silly to dash into the bedroom every time his phone rang, as if calls from his insurance company were something so clandestine he couldn’t possibly take them in front of Crowley, but he found himself rushing for the privacy of the bedroom every time. Crowley understood, he hoped so anyway, assumed he found it amusing judging by the thinly-veiled smile he would be wearing whenever Zira emerged from the bedroom after a call.

“Good afternoon, Zira Fell speaking.”

“Good afternoon, Mr Fell, this is Claire calling from A-Plus Insurance, how are you today?” The cheery voice that was usually an omen for frustrating news filtered out from the speaker and Zira found himself closing his eyes impatiently. _Let’s drop the pleasantries shall we, dear girl? Just tell me if it’s good news._

“Very well thank you, dear, how are you?”

“Yes, excellent, thank you. Do you have a moment to discuss your claim or is this a bad time?”

_Oh, yes, terribly busy at the moment doing absolutely nothing other than waiting for your call. A call that you did, in fact, promise me four days ago but let’s not go into that, shall we?_

“No, no, please go ahead. Do we have any news?”

A little intake of breath then, a moment of pause before she read from the carefully typed notes on the screen in front of her. It was easier, sometimes, to rely on a script when delivering news that could potentially be troublesome. “We’ve had the results back from the origin and cause team and I’m afraid what they found was inconclusive.”

“Inconclusive,” Zira parroted, his head knocking back against the door. “What does that mean exactly?”

“In terms of your claim it has no impact, so please don’t worry about that. We have had a delay in processing your paperwork, as we discussed last week. The valuation has taken longer than estimated due to the unique nature of your business but I am hopeful we’ll have news in the next week or…”

“I'm sorry to cut you off there but what do you mean by _inconclusive_?”

“The fire, sir. It started in the kitchen, that much was clear. Refrigerators, hobs left on, a microwave timer set incorrectly…it’s the most common room in any property for a fire to start but in your case there was…as I said, it was inconclusive.”

“But there must be something, some sort of evidence, I don’t know. They can tell these things, can’t they? Tests and-”

“Yes, Mr Fell, usually the tests are extremely accurate.” She stopped speaking for a moment, gave a wry little laugh. “It seems it will always remain something of a mystery.”

“Mmm, yes, miraculous.” Zira sighed, wondering why he felt such a surge of disappointment. “Thank you for letting me know, of course.”

“Thank you for your patience, sir, I know these delays haven’t been ideal but things are progressing, I can assure you. I’ll let you know as soon as we have a date for your deposit.”

Zira mumbled his goodbyes and clicked off of the call, slowly sliding his back down the door until he came to rest against the floor, glad Crowley was in the other room and unable to witness his moment of leaning into the drama. It didn’t make any difference, did it, whether he knew the cause of the fire or not? Still, it felt like one more punch to the gut to know that closure would always lay out of grasp, that it would be just one more forever unanswered question.

“Everything all right?” Crowley asked lightly, his smile dropping as Zira wandered out of the bedroom and he noticed his crestfallen expression. He clicked send on the e-mail he’d been composing and then closed his laptop, sensing the imminent conversation was going to require something more than half of his focus while the other half hammered out work e-mails on almost-autopilot.

“Yes, it’s all fine, _progressing_ apparently.” Zira flopped down next to him, curling his knees up against his chest as he leaned his head on the arm of the sofa. “It’s just…they couldn’t find out what caused the fire. Inconclusive, she said.”

Crowley shifted closer, nudged the bookseller’s thigh with his knee, urging him to continue. There was more to be said, that was much was obvious, but it could be difficult to pull the words out of Zira sometimes. He could be so introspective, that residue of falling back onto himself as a safe space nigh-on impossible to shake off.

He sighed, and with that exhale came tumbling forth the weight of a hundred little frustrations that had built up over the weeks. He had had, after all, countless hours in which to do nothing other than relive that night, the hours leading up to it, the hours afterwards, to ponder how it had happened, _why_ it had happened. “What did I do, Crowley? What did I do to make this happen? Why did this happen to me? I know I’m…disorganised, I know it must have been something I did, some careless slip of the mind. If they can’t tell me how it happened what’s to say it won’t happen again? How will I know not to make the same mistake twice?”

“Angel, have you been blaming yourself for this?” Crowley asked carefully, eyes roving over Zira’s face and finding distress knitted into every feature. “This wasn’t your fault, you didn’t _do_ anything to make this happen.”

“I have to know why, what I did wrong. If I don’t, if it’s just _something_ that happened then it can always happen again. I can’t live like that, waking up in the night thinking I can smell smoke, testing the fire alarms every day. Sometimes I’m in the kitchen and it’s like everything in there is the enemy, like any appliance might just…burst into flames at any moment. It’s the not knowing, how am I supposed to move on if I don’t know what happened? If there’s nothing to blame?”

Crowley chewed at his lip, swallowing a mouthful of helpfully motivational catchphrases that he knew were neither helpful nor motivational when it really came down to it. They were just noise, something to say to make the speaker feel as though they’d done a good job of comforting somebody in need. They didn’t hold any weight to them, not really, gave no comfort in the long nights spent trying to allocate blame in a situation when, really, there was nobody at all to blame. It _was_ just one of those things, the accident, but what hope would saying that bring Zira?

“Come on,” he said gently, pressing a kiss to Zira’s forehead before tugging him to his feet. “We’re getting out of here. We need to take your mind off of things. I'm taking you out. Well, Mick’s taking us out but still, let’s go.”

***

“Do you know something mad?” Crowley asked, his tongue snaking out to lick a thin line of froth from his top lip. Zira hummed out an affirmative, momentarily distracted by the hypnotic motion of Crowley’s tongue sweeping against his lip. “This is the first time we’ve ever gone to the pub, just the two of us.”

Zira laughed, eyebrows raising as he cradled his glass in both hands, leaning back against the wood panels of the booth they were tucked into. “Living together before we’d even gone for a drink.”

“Mmm, I know. Very on brand, isn’t it?” Crowley drained the last mouthful of beer from his glass, nodded to Zira’s balloon glass that held the last traces of a gin and tonic. “One for the road?”

They’d wiled away a couple of hours in the watering hole of Zira’s choosing, a cosy little nook of a pub nestled a couple of streets away from Crowley’s flat. The heavens had opened shortly before they’d left and neither of them were up for much of a drenching. As luck would have it, Zira’s choice was perfectly charming and, most importantly, came complete with two rotund labradors whose favourite pastime was to amble up to patrons and demand head scratches by repeatedly nudging their noses against unsuspecting drinkers’ legs until they relented.

“Temptation accomplished.” Zira’s eyes crinkled in the corners as he replied with the phrase that had become something of an in-joke ever since Crowley had uttered it, in all seriousness, on the first night they’d met. He pushed his empty glass back onto the table and stood up, heading for the bar before Crowley could argue. “I’ll get these.”

Crowley watched him go, let his eyes follow the bookseller’s path up to the bar, where he descended into chatter with the barman about various gin-related topics that mystified him. _What it it about gin drinkers_, he wondered, as he turned back to stare out of the rain-streaked window, _they can never just order a gin, can they, it always has to involve a five minute debate about which notes in which gin might go best with whichever fancy tonic is in fashion, why is that?_ He didn’t have the patience to seek out the complexity of gin, the nuance that lay beneath the sharp tang of juniper that, apparently, made each and every gin unique. No, it all tasted bitter to him. It was the spectacle of it that Zira must enjoy, he decided; the over the top glass, the perfectly round globe of ice that span in slow, lazy rotations in the drink, the scattering of garnishes that seemed to vary from establishment to establishment.

Zira arrived back at the table then, deposited a pint of deep amber beer in front of Crowley. The dog walker looked from his glass of Zira’s, grinned to himself at the representation of their lifestyles laid out perfectly through their drink choices.

“So,” Zira said, pausing momentarily to swirl his glass and dislodge the cinnamon stick that was rising up like the mast of a ship that had met a watery end after colliding with the comically large ice cube floating in the middle of his drink. “Curious to see how the rare book trade works first hand, are you?”

“I am. Intrigued to see you at work, if I’m honest.”

“Oh, I see, because it’s _such_ a rare occurrence?” He kept up a frown for a second, before he cracked into a smile, shortly after Crowley began spluttering protestations. “I do miss it, you know, working. There’s a patience to it. I’ve spent months chasing down a single title before. And now, well, I have to start again. All those books…Do you know I had a first Bentley edition of Sense and Sensibility in the case above the cash desk? Almost two hundred years old. Gone. Just…dust and ash now, swept into a bag and taken to landfill. Ludicrous.”

Crowley took his hand, felt the bookseller’s skin smooth against his own, gave him a little smile. “I’ll help you track another one down. Everything you lost, we’ll replace them all. It might take us a while but I’ll take you anywhere you need to go, however long it takes.”

Zira nodded gratefully, looking up at him for a moment before he looked back to his drink. He didn’t have the heart to tell him it was an impossible task, that some of the copies were irreplaceable in their rarity. Sure, that meant a hefty deposit into his bank account was imminent, meant the capital needed to restock the shop wouldn’t be a problem; it was the _time_ that couldn’t be replaced, the _luck_ that played such a huge role in his work. He didn’t mention that though, the time or the luck, just squeezed Crowley’s hand in response and wondered if the trade off for finding Crowley was losing everything else, realised he would have found himself in the same position if he’d been given the choice. _What good are things, irreplaceable or otherwise_, he mused, his eyes meeting Crowley’s across the table as something as yet unspoken passed between them, _compared to you, my love_?

***

“What are you up to?” Zira asked, laughing into the night as Crowley dragged him from doorway to doorway, sheltering from the rain as they made their way back to the flat. _One_ last drink had turned into two, which had turned into _just one more_, leaving the two of them powerless to do anything other than giggle their way up the three flights of stairs that led to Crowley’s flat, arm in arm if only to keep each other upright. “You’re up to something, I can tell.”

“Why are you always so suspicious of me?” Crowley clasped one hand to his heart, face the picture of innocence as he unlocked the door and the two of them tumbled inside, reaching down in tandem to fuss over Barnaby as he careened over to them as desperately as if he’d been left alone for eons. “My boy, look at you, so handsome. What a perfect boy. Who’s the best boy?”

“You’re the best boy,” Zira cooed at the dog, scratching the spot just above his tail that he particularly loved. “How could we leave you alone for a whole three hours? What cruelty you have to endure.”

“Tough life, isn’t it?” Crowley tossed Barnaby a chew, which he pounced on as if it was hard-won prey, before carrying it victoriously over to his bed. Crowley turned his attention to Zira then, ushered the bookseller over to the sofa as he dashed into the bathroom. “Wait here.”

There was the sound of the bath taps being turned on, followed by enough clattering around that Zira leaned over the edge of the sofa, calling out to Crowley. “What are you doing in there?”

He stuck his head around the door and a little wisp of steam escaped above him. “I said wait!”

_Does he…does he think I’ve never had a bath before?_ Zira sighed, wondering how in the world he was going to pull off the rapturous shock and delight required to convince Crowley that a leisurely soak in the bath was brand new territory for him. _Do I look like a shower kind of man? I’ve got a proclivity for baths written all over me, surely. Nice lavender bubble bath, peppermint bath salts, what else is there?_

Crowley emerged from the bathroom a moment later with a wide grin on his face that suggested he was very proud of himself indeed. “I know today hasn’t been the best, what with the insurance hiccup and the like, so I have prepared you the ultimate relaxation. You can’t beat it. It’s impossible. This will be, I wholeheartedly promise, the best bath you’ve ever had.”

Crowley nudged him towards the bathroom, disappearing into the kitchen to clank around with a pan on the hob. Zira, always happy to go wherever Crowley may lead him, paced towards the bathroom, stopping dead on the threshold as he opened the door and was greeted by what was, he had to hand it to Crowley, the most relaxing sight he had witnessed in a very, very long time.

Twin pillar candles stood at the opposite end of the bath, the gently flickering LED faux-flames the only light in the room, save for the moonlight shining against the frosted window, while Crowley’s phone lay on top of the windowsill, a graceful piano instrumental echoing out from it, only enhanced by the quiet patter of rain against the glass. Clouds of bubbles rose high above the bath, soft pillows of white that looked so inviting Zira knew there was a good chance he’d fall asleep before the water grew cold. Then there was the smell, the heady blend of cocoa butter and vanilla that hung in the steamy air as he pressed the door closed behind him. He swept a hand through the water, did a double take as he took in the rich turquoise depths of it, scooped a handful up and let it run through his fingers, the azure liquid shot through with glitter that caught the glint of the moonlight outside.

_Oh, good lord. _The fussy voice in the back of Zira’s mind that he had gradually grown to tolerate over the months appeared to shake itself awake as he lowered himself into the bath and let out a long, low sigh of satisfaction as his skin met the warm water. _This is…glorious. Why have I never-, when I get-_

It stopped abruptly, as if cutting short its own trail of thought before it said too much. Zira paid it no mind, wasn’t in a position to pay anything much mind at all, given that his own consciousness was preoccupied with nothing other than the absolute unparalleled paradise that was the most perfect bath that had ever been known to mankind.

As he sank low enough that only his nose, eyes and forehead were visible, he let the water ripple gently back and forth as every stress, every question, every niggling thought of blame and every desperate desire for understanding ebbed away, leaving only contentment in its wake.

***

“Baptism by bath bomb. How was it?” Crowley looked over as Zira emerged from the bathroom almost an hour later, blinking as his eyes adjusted to the living room light, pink-skinned and sedate.

“Is that what that was?” he asked, padding over to the sofa and tightening the cord of his bathrobe as he clambered on top of Crowley, sliding his legs down either side of the dog walker’s and resting a warm cheek against his bare chest. “That was paradise. Absolute paradise. I feel like a new man.”

“Good.” Crowley angled his head down just enough to press a kiss to that wet mop of white blond hair. “Cocoa on the coffee table for you.”

“Have I told you that you’re utterly perfect?” Zira sighed wistfully, one hand reaching out to curl around the white mug and bring it to his lips.

“It’s been a couple of days.” Crowley stroked the hair back from Zira’s forehead, swiped a finger across his skin to find glitter on his fingertip, gazed down at him with a soft smile on his face. “You look like heaven.” He ducked down to kiss his neck as Zira laughed against him. “Taste like it too, come to mention it.”

They fell silent then, Zira sipping his way through the mug of cocoa while Crowley linked his fingers behind Zira’s back, resting his chin against the bookseller’s hair and closing his eyes, focusing on nothing other than their breathing, peaceful and in sync, two chests rising and falling as one.

“Thank you, Crowley, for this, for taking my mind off of things.” Zira placed the empty cup on the coffee table, pressed his chin to Crowley’s chest as he looked up at him. “You always know what I need, even when I have no idea.”

“It was a lot, today, I know it can’t have been easy not to get that closure. It wasn’t your fault, though, the fire. I can’t imagine how it feels to have that question unanswered but the one thing I do know is that it wasn’t your fault. If you feel like blaming yourself just…will you talk to me, angel, instead of trying to work through it on your own?”

It was a difficult thing, to undo a lifetime of solitude, to reframe your thinking after decades of relying on nobody but yourself. It was a shock, albeit a pleasant one, that realisation that you no longer had to shoulder everything alone, that you could share those vulnerable moments with somebody else. It was such a small thing, that evening, something infinitesimal in the scheme of everything that was to come, but it was another one of those pivotal moments that Zira held dear, one more testament to the joy of quiet rebellions.

“First the flood, now the fire, it’s as if something is trying to force us together.” Zira smiled the words against Crowley’s chest, eyes closing as he felt Crowley’s fingers trace nonsensical patterns against his damp skin. “Written in the stars."

“I thought it was all _hogwash_?” Crowley blinked up at the ceiling, hugging Zira closer as he remembered the way the bookseller had stared so intently into his eyes on the first night they’d met, how his voice had near enough trailed into silence as he’d whispered that there was something special about their connection, that they might be something more, something like soulmates.

“It is. It absolutely is. Every jot of it. But us…perhaps this is the exception.”

There was something infinite about the way they had come together time and time again, crossing paths in the most unlikely of places, being thrown together in the mundane chaos of life. There was something so familiar about the feeling of laying there in Crowley’s arms as he let the first fingers of sleep curl around him, that feeling of home, the miraculous relief at having found that person, that _one_ person who felt like the answer to a question he couldn’t begin to articulate. Fear too, of course, the panic that now he had something so precious to lose, that one misstep could be all it took and that dream, that heady, wonderful, waking dream could be over. He shook it away, the fear, was getting better at banishing the dread as soon as it presented itself. The fire had taught him something, at least, to take a step back from living with frantic worries about the future, to focus instead on what was happening in the now. After all, what else besides the now was a guarantee?

“I don’t have to subscribe to the notion of moon signs to know that this is something special, to know that _you’re_ something special, like a star, brighter than anything else in the sky,” he breathed, punctuating the sentence with a kiss.

“You sound like Raphael.” Crowley laughed, stifling a yawn before shifting into a startlingly accurate impression of Raphael doting on Luci. “_Oh, my morning star, look at you, you beautiful mess of stardust_.”

“I mean it.” Zira sat back on his heels, pulled Crowley up until they were both sitting up, hands interlinked between their tangled legs, lips a breath apart. “It's as if you're the centre of everything, Crowley, my North Star.”

“How I light up the sky when it’s at its darkest.” Words bloomed in Crowley’s mind and he found himself speaking them before he had a chance to comprehend how they had arrived so easily, so fully-formed it was as if he’d held them close for a lifetime, a precious memory where every line, every stroke was perfectly committed to memory, a stitch so tightly bound to his soul that not even the ravages of time could begin to unpick.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Well, here we are pals, the end of the weekend. I hope you've all had a delightful one. Mine has been rather jolly, lots of food and family time <3. Lots going on in this chapter, hope you enjoyed it!
> 
> Next chapters are coming on...
> 
> Tuesday: It's time for Lucifer and the Guys to take to the stage :D. Groupies, assemble! (Gig Night Part I)  
Friday: Gig Night Part II
> 
> I should be lingering around in the comments later this evening so I'm looking forward to catching up on replying to last chapter's comments shortly.  
<3


	27. Everything I Love is on the Table

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Crowley looked down at the ground, then up at Dan, wondering how any of them had managed to survive for that long when their combined intelligence was that of a discarded pea. Thank god for Mick.

**February. The Devil’s Den, Islington.**

Crowley braced one elbow against his knee, hoping the weight of his chin on his hand would calm the nervous bounce in his leg. It didn’t. It just reverberated through his jaw until his teeth clattered together.

“Calm down,” he muttered to himself. “You’ll chip a tooth if you keep this up.”

He sighed, flopped back against the creaky sofa in the Den’s kitchen-cum-dressing-room and took a swig of beer. Half an hour. He had half an hour left before he had to take to the stage and play the best show of his life. This was the big one. The one that mattered. This time they weren’t performing a set of songs that one of them had fancied lending their vocals to, this time the very depths of his soul were going to be laid bare for the band, the entire audience and, most terrifyingly, Zira to hear. It was a good thing he had no responsibility to sing anything other than the odd backing vocal because his throat had felt like sandpaper since he’d woken up that morning in a cold sweat.

_He might not pick up on the words_, he thought to himself, shrugging casually as if the notion held any sort of believability, _he’s not the most observant man in the world, is he? He didn’t even notice we had a second dog staying in the house on Thursday until we took them both out for a walk. Maybe tonight will be the same, maybe he’ll just think it’s a perfectly lovely set of songs. That’s the sort of thing he’d say, isn’t it?_

_Slight problem with your infallible logic, mate. He’s not an idiot. There’s only room for one of those in a relationship and you’ve got that base covered._

_Excuse me, I think you’ll find we’re both- Wait. No, I think you’ll find neither of us are idiots._

Crowley paused, wondering when exactly he had embraced the idea of a voice in the back of his mind that seemed to thrive on hissing derogatory comments. He wasn’t an expert on otherworldly voices but he was fairly sure they were supposed to be on your side. It would be just his luck, he reasoned, to be saddled with the only conscience in existence that was resolutely opposed to his…

_I’m not resolutely opposed to your happiness, you bloody idiot. I’ve been, you know, encouraging._

_Encouraging?! Is this what you call encouraging? On Tuesday when you convinced me it would be sexy to open the door in nothing but a god damn smoking jacket did you, or did you not, know that it was Sammy at the door and not Zira? I don’t know why I didn’t suspect anything when you talked me into it. Zira has a key for crying out loud, why would he be knocking? Why would you do that to me?_

There was a pause, as if the voice was letting the obvious answer hang in the silence.

_It was funny._

_I’m not a…circus clown for your entertainment. Look, I’ve been giving this a lot of thought and-_

_Careful, don’t hurt yourself._

Crowley uttered a heave of frustration. _As I was saying, I’ve been giving it a lot of thought and I think I’ve cracked this mystery. As you don’t seem to want to tell me why the hell you arrived without provocation and seem to want to wreak nothing but havoc, I’m getting to the bottom of it myself by using logic and reason._

_Trust me, little man, there is nothing logical about…_

_No, no, I know what’s going on here. Let’s look at the facts. There are two things I know for sure: one, I only started to hear you after I met Zira for the first time and, two, you are at your most out of control whenever we’re, you know, getting down to it._

_You have my attention._

_There’s only one logical answer. You’re, er, you know._

_I absolutely do not know what the hell you're talking about._

Alone backstage, with twenty five minutes to go until showtime, Crowley bit his lip, took a deep drink of beer for courage and stared down at the front of his jeans. _Look, mate, I have to ask, are you my dick? Am I that far gone that I’m literally thinking with my dick? Have I become an actual dickhead?_

Another pause, before a laboured sigh rattled around Crowley’s brain.

_I’m going to strangle that angel when I get out of here._

“Do, re, mi, fa, so, la, ti, do!” 

Crowley’s conversation with the unconfirmed phallic voice in his mind was cut short when the band barrelled through the door, Lily and Dan warbling vocal warmups at the top of their voices.

“Dan, would you grab me a beer?” Lily trilled, voice pitching an octave above her usual range as she leaned close to Crowley’s ear to hit the crescendo.

“Why, yes, a beer would be just fine!” Dan sang back, voice so deep it was nothing but a deep velvety hum. 

“Why is this happening?” Crowley asked, looking from one to the other as they stood in front of him, beaming inanely. 

Lily shrugged, as if their descent into a real life musical was clear to everybody involved. “It’s not every day we get to sing our Little Brother’s devotion to his hubby, is it? It’s like we’re giving you away.”

Sammy nodded, twirling a floppy black beanie hat on one finger. “I brought a hat and everything.”

Next to them, looking every inch the proud older sibling, Dan whipped out a slightly crushed bouquet of flowers from behind his back. “We got you these. A bouquet for our blushing brother.”

It was the highest form of affection, that merciless trolling moments before the biggest performance of his life, and Crowley had never loved his friends more. “I hate you all. Please, for all that is holy, can someone please pour me a shot? I can’t play if my hands are shaking.”

While Lily and Sammy turned away to put their focus on the bottle of tequila Lily had in one hand, Dan sat down next to Crowley and gave him a squeeze on the shoulder. “You know I really did propose to Priya by singing to her, right?” 

“No, you told us you proposed after dinner one night, made the whole thing seem startlingly lowkey, from what I remember.”

“Well, I mean, I _would_ have proposed by singing to her…only I got so nervous I passed out and blurted it out after I came round. Still, you see my point.”

Crowley looked down at the ground, then up at Dan, wondering how any of them had managed to survive for that long when their combined intelligence was that of a discarded pea. Thank god for Mick. “No, Dan. I don’t see your point. At all.”

“My point is…” Dan trailed off, then gave Crowley another squeeze on the shoulder as if that might answer any of the hundreds of questions rocketing around his brain. “It’ll be great. I haven’t had any milk in my tea for a week to prepare for this. And if you do ever need someone to sing your proposal I’d recommend Lily, not me. That was my point.”

Crowley raised both eyebrows, nodding slowly. “Great chat, Dan. Thanks.” 

Dan nodded happily. “Good. Good chat, Little Brother.”

As Dan strolled off, apparently pleased with his disaster of a pep talk, Crowley threw his hands up in frustration and wondered if, perhaps, the voice in his mind might make more sense than the rest of the band combined. Before he could attempt to will it back into existence Sammy slapped a shot glass in his hand and Lily pounced onto the sofa next to him, holding him still with one knee pressed against his thighs as she grabbed his chin and started furiously lining his eyes with kohl.

“I should have learned by this point not to ask but…what are you doing, Lily?”

“Shh, stop moving. I can see the whites all around your eyes, you’re panicking. You need defence eyeliner.”

Crowley closed his eyes obediently, had been on the receiving end of Lily’s wayward make up application enough times to learn to keep his soft parts protected. “Again, I should know better but…defence eyeliner?”

“Nothing like perfect eyeliner to make you feel invincible. Now, hold still, I’ve had one drink too many for a cat eye so you’ll have to go with two day drinking binge chic, all right?” 

***

_Look at you, you brave scallywag, _Zira thought to himself as he strolled up to the gloomy exterior of the Den and stepped casually over the threshold, carefully avoiding the step that had almost tripped him up the first time he’d visited. He pondered what a difference a few months could make, remembering the last time when he had paced up and down the street attempting to steady his breathing, the mere notion of entering a club _alone _almost too much to bear. That night, however, he was too excited to see Crowley perform to be worried about anything at all. Well, aside from the imminent death by groupies but he had full faith that Mick would protect him. Besides, there was no way for the groupies to _know _he was shacked up with the object of their affection, was there? He wasn’t exactly wearing a t-shirt with ‘Sleeping with the Guitarist’ emblazoned across it. He _was_ wearing one of Crowley’s old t-shirts, though, something that gave him a thrill whenever he thought about it, that secret intimacy invisible to the outside world.

He nodded at the girl sitting behind the booth by the cloakroom, remembering how foolishly he had stood there before and nervously asked her for a ticket. Now he knew better, had become infinitely wiser to the nuances of underground club etiquette, and made his way cheerily down to the steps that would lead to…

“Sir!” The girl’s voice followed him sharply, a note of alarm filtering out from behind the booth. “Sir, excuse me, I need to check your ticket.”

_That lanky toerag_, Zira thought, feeling cold beads of humiliation prickle on the back of his neck, _why didn’t he tell me it was ticketed tonight? _He dashed back to the booth, pulling his bank card out of his pocket and hoping no other patrons had witnessed his faux pas. “I am so sorry, I had no idea tonight was…”

She burst out laughing then, shaking her head and holding up both hands in apology. “I’m just fucking with you. Go on in, they’ll be on in about twenty minutes. Nice t-shirt, by the way.”

As she nodded in approval at his gig-ready attire, Zira felt a little swell of pride. _Joking with the staff like a regular, whatever next?_

It was an ocean of black, heads undulating like waves as patrons weaved through the crowd to head to the bar. Above them all stood Zira, rising up onto the balls of his feet as he perched on the bottom step and peered around the room in search of his adversary for the night. Well, adversaries, if the others were to be believed. How did one identify groupies, anyway? He tried to conjure up an image of the two girls he’d noticed at the last gig, the duo who had coolly looked him up and down as he and Crowley had shared a few stuttering sentences and an awkward hug after the show. He couldn’t see them amongst the crowd but perhaps he had the wrong culprits, perhaps there was another group, a _bigger_ group. He presumed they would be dressed as per the unofficial dress code of the Den, black on top of more black, rather than wearing neon ‘I <3 Crowley’ t-shirts, but without that he wasn’t going to have much luck identifying them. Without a confirmed sighting of either the groupies or his bodyguard for the night, Zira did what every sensible, responsible person would do and headed straight for the bar.

“Two gins please.” It was becoming his usual order on a night out and he could almost feel Raphael beaming with pride at the idea of his sweet friend having not one but two drinks clasped between his fingers at any given moment.

“Finally, we get to say hello properly.”

Zira followed the sound of the voice to find Verity standing next to him, both elbows leaning against the edge of the bar as she sipped a pint of inexplicably dark orange liquid. “Oh, yes, Princess Zelda, how are you?”

As their chat descended, as it so easily does between animal lovers, into how Verity’s two mammoth wolfhounds were getting on, Zira pondered the exact moment when he had gone from feeling heart-poundingly terrified at the notion of meeting Crowley’s friends to enjoying chatting with them, relishing the opportunity to learn more about the peripheries of Crowley’s life.

“And it’s all going well, is it? You and him?” Verity nodded towards the empty stage. “Lily told me about the shop, I’m really sorry, love.”

“Oh, thank you. It’s, er, well, it’s not ideal. He’s been amazing, he really has. Putting up with me and my…” Zira trailed off, putting one plastic cup down on the bar to gesture to himself to reinforce his vague point. “Onwards and upwards, as they say. Phoenix from the ashes, hopefully.”

“You should get that tattooed.” She laid a hand on his forearm and turned it over to reveal a stretch of bare skin. “Come and see me and Lily in the shop one day, we’ll give you mates rates if you ever get tempted.”

_My dear, I will do absolutely nothing of the sort_, he thought, shocked that she would even put such a notion in his head. Needles and…pain…and permanent convictions etched into his very skin. What a terrifying idea. Still, the soft watercolour art that wrapped itself around her arms from wrist to shoulder _was_ rather beautiful. Verity caught him looking at her own tattoos, pressed a thumb to her opposite bicep and laughed. “You’ll be here all night if you try to spot all the details. Lily’s work, most of it, you won’t find anyone better than her in London. Well, apart from me, of course.”

“Well, Verity, if I ever _do_ decide to…get inked, is it, you’ll be the first person I call, I can assure you.”

Verity knocked her pint glass against Zira’s cup to seal the deal and then gave him a wink before she disappeared back into the crowd. Alone at the bar, Zira sipped at his gin and glanced down at his phone. _Any minute now and they’ll be starting._

“Zira!”

He looked up at the sound of somebody calling his name, found Mick waving as he made his way through the crowd towards him, clapping a big hand against his shoulder when he drew up alongside him. “Zira, my boy, how are you feeling?”

They skipped over the small talk as Mick cut straight to the heart of things by enquiring if there was any news about the shop. There hadn’t been, to Zira’s frustration, not since the beginning of the week when the cause of the fire had been deemed _inconclusive_.

“…As if it was just some…divine intervention,” Zira finished, rolling his eyes at the stupidity of the idea. “All they can tell me about the settlement is that it’ll be soon. Who’s to say if that’s next week or next month?” 

“Well, let’s see if tonight can take your mind off of it, eh? They should be on any minute. Let me get you another drink. G&T, is it?” 

In what was impeccable timing, Zira had been vulnerably alone for mere seconds when he noticed two girls descending the steps in absolute tandem, dressed in impeccable outfits of black leather and lace, severe eyeliner giving their faces a delicate feline edge, two curtains of poker straight hair swinging prettily as they sashayed into the club.

_It’s them._

The girls gave the room a cursory overview before winding through the tightly packed crush of bodies to settle themselves squarely in front of the stage, just inches away from where Crowley’s amp was set up. It was, Zira had to admit, the perfect position from which to view every detail of him when he finally made it on stage. They hadn’t noticed Zira, which he assumed meant he would get to enjoy at least the first song before some groupie psychic powers tipped them off and they pummelled him to the ground and cartwheeled on stage to claim Crowley for their own.

Zira watched them as they giggled to themselves, cupping a hand around the other one’s ear before leaning in close to whisper something that would send the other one into screeching hysterics. One of them pulled out a phone, holding it out in front of them as they pressed their faces together, bending their knees and snapping picture after picture. Zira pursed his lips, wondering whether he was perfectly within reason or just bitter to find their frivolity so…irritating. It would have been a different matter if they weren’t the duo responsible for the bra-on-the-car incident but he felt his metaphorical hackles rise at the idea of these twin challengers vying for Crowley’s attention.

_It’s called jealousy, my good man. And yes, you are afflicted with it. Sorry about that._

_Oh, it’s not your fault_. It was the first time Zira had ever been aware of his conscience apologising for anything, more often than not it would debate him into submission if he ever tried to challenge it, so he grasped the opportunity to make peace with both hands. _Let’s just blame it on…the hips, or something._

_Yes, quite so. The hips. Couldn’t even begin to fathom the trouble they’ve caused over the eons._

Before Zira could daydream about Crowley’s troublesome hips for another moment, six things happened in the span of fifteen seconds. The door at the back of the stage slammed open and the band poured out, Lily slammed a half empty bottle of tequila down on top of her amp, Dan introduced the band and counted them down into the first song, Zira felt his knees almost buckle as Crowley locked eyes with him, and Mick deposited two cups of gin and tonic into his waiting hands. It was, Zira was sure, the most chaotic fifteen seconds that evening would hold.

And then, the gig began.

_“When you stand close to me_

_I can feel your body heat_

_So sweet_

_Shut up and kiss me”_

It had been near enough a month since Crowley had flung open the metaphorical doors to his home and ushered Zira inside, and the bookseller had grown used to the domesticity of their situation. Breakfast in bed, offhand kisses as they passed each other in the kitchen, Crowley damp-skinned and messy-haired as he would pad out of the bathroom in nothing but a towel; yes, Zira had become accustomed to Crowley’s softer side over the weeks. Their day to day routine had cosiness bursting from the seams, all soft knitwear and snuggling on the sofa as the nights drew in, so much cosiness, in fact, that Zira had almost forgotten that Crowley on stage was a different beast all together, that the world saw him as something else, something hard-edged that might even have been a little bit dangerous. 

The crowd surged forward as the band reached the final chorus of their first song, voices from the audience rising up to accompany Crowley and Sammy as they leaned into their mics to growl out backing vocals. There was a moment in which every member of the band sang together, the atmosphere electric as the lights pulsated high above the stage, painting the four of them blood red, the crowd jumping up and down in time with Sammy’s frantic drumbeat. 

Utterly transfixed, Zira ducked and weaved his way through the crowd, Mick in tow, until he had a closer view. After all, there wasn’t an inch of Crowley’s performance that he wanted to miss. He was, at great risk to Zira’s blood pressure, dressed in the notorious _lucky_ jeans and a worn leather jacket that had always had the effect of reducing Zira to nothing but a mass of soft limbs and stuttering speech, the peek of a red t-shirt was visible under the open jacket, and was that…

“Oh my fucking god, he’s wearing eyeliner, I just got pregnant!”

Zira heard one of the girls in front of him turn to the other as they both descended into screams of elation. He took a swig of gin, trying to decipher whether the thrum of emotion in the back of his mind was telling him to stake his claim or join them in the screaming. In the end he opted to revert to his previous state of being and gaze longingly up at Crowley as he paced back and forth on the stage like a panther, pausing only when the song finished and he had a quick moment to suck down a mouthful of tequila from the bottle on Lily’s side of the stage.

_Hmm, _Zira mused approvingly, as he watched Crowley wipe the alcoholic residue from his lips and give the band a giddy smile. _Tequila coupled with a performance high…Tonight should be interesting._

_“Don’t sell your heart, don’t say we’re not meant to be_

_Run, baby, run, forever we’ll be_

_You and me"_

_Well, that’s attractive._ Crowley glanced down at the streak of sweat he’d inadvertently flicked onto the top of his amp after a particularly enthusiastic lead-break in the previous song. It was hard work, performing, and the club was packed that night, the mass of bodies radiating heat that billowed across the stage. 

Lily’s masterstroke of plying him with tequila to settle his nerves had worked wonders. He’d never felt like more of a showman as he strutted up to the edge of the stage, planted his feet as close to the edge as he dared and played harder than he ever had before. His fingertips were already on fire but the pain didn’t register, he wanted to leave everything he had on the stage that night. All of it, every song choice, every bundle of nerves he’d swallowed in the lead up to that night, all of it was about Zira. Was _for_ Zira. What easier way was there to confess your feelings than to substitute your own messy words with somebody else’s far more eloquent ones? It was how he felt, every lyric, and if it was going overboard then he was sure as hell going to give that irresistible bookseller a good farewell show. He’d come this far, he might as well commit to it fully, however intimidating the idea of it was. Whispered words of devotion when it was just the two of them curled against each other on the sofa was one thing but to own that devotion publicly, to shout it from the rooftops without a trace of regret, there was a bravery to that that Crowley was only just beginning to understand the depth of.

He looked out across the audience as they reached the crescendo of their second song, struggled to make out any faces in the crowd other than the two girls pressed to the front of the stage, staring up at him, unblinking in their focus. He swallowed deeply, taking a couple of paces back so he was free from the glare of the lights and then, as he looked back at the crowd, there was Zira. 

Looking happier than he had for weeks, the bookseller was dancing madly with Mick, both men with their arms flung around each other’s shoulders as they bounced up and down, Zira completely out of time with everybody else in the club as he unknowingly poured gin down the arm of Mick’s t-shirt. That cloud of blond hair was more of a bird’s nest than the usual fluffy halo it mimicked, and the grin on his face was so open and excited that it was all Crowley could do to resist the overwhelming urge to dive into the crowd to kiss him and never stop.

_That’s it. I’m done for. I am utterly, completely, with every fabric of my being, entirely besotted with that bookseller and his lack of rhythm and his perfect hair._

Crowley would have been lying if he pretended the memory of Zira staring up at him in wonder the first time he’d come to see the band wasn’t etched across his brain as a recollection he revisited far more often than he would ever have admitted. Yes, there was an undeniable pulse of excitement at the memory of that adoration, that little slice of trepidation about what might be to come, but on _that _night, as their eyes met across the crowd and Zira held his look with a smile that fell halfway between pride and intention, that was something that undid Crowley even further. That shared history flashed between them; every chance encounter and unforeseen disaster, every sniffy remark that Zira had worn like armour, every nonchalant goodbye Crowley had worn like a mask, those first uncertain steps on a journey that neither one had ever seen coming. 

_“I have only two emotions_

_Careful fear and dead devotion”_

Zira stopped dead when he heard the familiar lines as the band settled in the next song, Mick’s arm smacking against the side of his head as the big man kept pogoing up and down in time with the steady beat. Those words. He knew them so well he could recite them in his sleep. He had traced his finger over them untold times, those words scrawled across the page in Crowley’s chicken scratch handwriting, one of the hundreds of quotes in the book he had given him, his most precious thing of all. It might have been Dan’s voice singing them, that soft timbre that gave the song the melancholy edge Zira had lifted when he’d read the words, but they were forever etched on his memory as something Crowley had brought into his life. There was a world of beauty in that book, a world of pain too, and love and devotion and the quiet pledge to live every minute of life without regret. He was there on every page and Zira had committed every line to memory, every piece of Crowley that he hadn’t yet found the courage to articulate.

_“I’m not alone_

_I’ll never be_

_And to the bone_

_I’m evergreen”_

_Is this…is this how he feels? Is this how he feels about us?_ Zira shook the thought free from his mind before it could take root, smiling to himself at his own self-indulgence. It was a delicious daydream, the idea of casting himself in the starring role of the evening, of Crowley commanding the stage, earning a roomful of eyes staring at his every movement but casting them aside, only really being there for one purpose. He looked up at him, at the strong jut of his jaw as he strummed the melody that led into the song’s chorus, the softness in his beautiful eyes as he looked right back at him and a look passed between them, just for a moment, so deeply loaded with longing that it was as if they had wound the clock back to the night time Zira had watched them perform, back when they had both been too scared to speak the words aloud, to say _I want you, I need you, let’s stop wasting time._

“The book,” Zira mouthed, as he stood there, stock still amongst the crowd. He didn’t know if Crowley could make out what he said, as he was jostled to and fro by the heaving mass of people around him. It was a comfort, those bodies, that heat, all of the energy radiating off of these kindred spirits who were there in the Devil’s Den to dance, to forget, maybe even to remember.

_“Calm down, it’s all right_

_Keep my arms the rest of the night_

_When they ask, what do I see_

_I say, a bright white beautiful heaven hanging over me”_

As Dan sang the next lines of the song they were sung unaccompanied, his voice steady against the drumbeat and bassline as Crowley stopped playing for long enough to point both index fingers at Zira for a heartbeat, following the gesture up with a wink that left the bookseller sinking his front teeth so deeply into his bottom lip that he left a row of four deep indentations against the soft skin.

It was tempting, it was _so_ tempting to rush the stage, to tug that guitar strap from his neck and pull him close, to kiss him until there could be no doubt in Crowley’s mind that he had fallen him, absolutely, that there was nothing but aching devotion in his heart. _If only, if only I had the words, if only I had somebody else’s words. Oh, my love, I will find a way to show you how I feel, someday._ _Someday soon._

No sooner had Zira managed to pull himself out of his giddy haze than the song ended, Dan pausing at the mic to tell the audience they had a couple of quick adjustments to make so to grab a drink and cool off before part two of the set continued.

“Enjoying yourself?” Mick asked with a wry smile, as if it was a question that even needed to be asked.

_Being secretly serenaded by the world’s most perfect guitarist and dog walker extraordinaire? Yes, Mick, yes I am enjoying myself, very much so. _“Yes, they’re sounding rather good, aren’t they?”

“Rather good.” Mick laughed, disappeared into the crowd as he called over his shoulder that he’d get the next round of drinks in.

_Well_, Zira thought to himself, _this might just be the best night of my_… He froze then, as the two girls who had spent the gig staring up at Crowley turned in tandem to stare directly at him, the man they had seen the object of their affection point out like a spotlight. And they didn’t look happy at all.

“_Where’s your passion, where’s your fire tonight?_

_I can’t believe there’s nothing you’re willing to hide_

_I want to believe_

_I set my body on fire so I could be free”_

Zira gripped his empty plastic cup so tightly he felt it crack inside his palm, a dribble of ice water licking its way down the underside of his forearm as his eyes darted in a wide arc, seeking out anybody he might recognise. Crowley had disappeared backstage after Dan had announced their brief break or, Zira wasn’t too ashamed to admit, he would have made straight for the stage and hidden behind him like a safety blanket until the…_oh, pull yourself together, man, you escaped from a burning building less than a month ago, why are you so scared of two girls who are…oh, lord, why are they coming over?_

“Good, er, good evening, ladies. How are…” The words came out laced with far more terror than Zira was comfortable with showing, his sentence trailing off into silence as the girls strutted up to him, hands on hips, coming to a stop mere inches from his face before they looked him up and down. _This can’t have been the first time they’ve done this. Have they rehearsed this? Why are they so in sync? Are they…Groupie robots? Do they have any idea how utterly terrifying they…_

And then the first girl broke into an open-mouth smile as she pointed excitedly at the borrowed outfit Zira was wearing. “Oh my god, I love your jacket.”

_Ah_, Zira thought, looking over his shoulder to see if his dishevelled saviour was on his way back with the much-needed gin, _this is how it begins, with innocent mocking that devolves into full-scale violence. I know how these things work. Well, ladies, I am wise to your…_

“Is it vintage?” The other girl reached out to run a finger down the soft velvet trim that stretched down the length of the jacket he’d pilfered from Raphael’s donated stash. There was something in her voice, a curl of genuine interest, that saw Zira recoil in shock. Were they…actually interested?

“You could say that.” He risked a little laugh, wondering what in the world their plan was for this conversation. They’d seen Crowley point him out, there was no doubt about that, had turned with faces like thunder to seek out the culprit and now here they were, _complimenting_ his sartorial choices as if they were…pals at brunch.

_“Shyness is nice, and shyness can stop you_

_From doing all the things in life you’d like to_

_So if there’s something you’d like to try_

_If there’s something you’d like to try_

_Ask me, I won’t say no, how could I?”_

The girls leaned in close, and the taller of the two burst into chatter, her voice a bubble of excitement, while the other nodded along in violent agreement. “The guitarist, your boyfriend, oh my god, you’re so lucky. He is _so_ gorgeous.”

“Oh.” This was not the eventuality Zira had planned for. He had prepared for frostiness, he had prepared for glaring, he had, though he would be loathe to admit it, prepared to sprint up the steps two at a time if the threat of violence reared its head. He had not, however, prepared to be befriended by the two people who were almost as dedicated to unblinkingly staring at the front of Crowley’s jeans as he was. “Oh, he’s not my…well, I wouldn’t say he’s my _boyfriend_.”

Boyfriend. How small that word seemed, how even if it was true it couldn’t begin to do justice to what he and Crowley shared. Lovers? Partners? Nothing seemed to fit correctly. They’d talked about in their way, about labels and definitions, had always come to the conclusion that it wasn’t necessary, that they had what they had and the nature of it couldn’t be changed through something as simple as a word. Soulmates? That was the one Zira had kept coming back to, the pledge he’d thrown out in a moment of drunken bravery on the first night they’d met. The idea of being two halves of a whole was a notion he had always found romantic, the thought of two entities coming together to form something new. And he _was_ something new when he was with Crowley, something bigger than he had been in the time before, in the years when he had turned away from life, retreated to that safe place where there was no risk of danger. Until, of course, there was.

“He’s _single_?” The other girl grabbed for her friend’s hand, gripping it tightly as she shrieked so loudly the man next to them turned in shock, rolling his eyes as he turned back to his conversation.

“Well, no no, I wouldn’t say that either.” Zira jumped in quickly, lest they think there was an opportunity there. They were still on tentative ground, after all. One compliment paid to a jacket he didn’t even own did not a friendship make.

The girls apparently had different ideas about what constituted friendship as they stared at Zira, wide-eyed, as if he had just become their new best friend. They settled themselves on either side of him, linked an arm through each of his and guided him gently over to the corner of the room, where they could vigorously question him in peace.

_“I really want to know your name_

_And see your face_

_Know who you are_

_Who you are_

_How did you find me?”_

“We knew there was something going on. We saw you two after the last show. _So_ cute. Tell us everything, how did you meet?”

Zira paused, looking from one girl to the other. They had looked so daunting from a distance, outfits perfectly curated to give off an air of cool, twinned make up so perfectly executed it could never be anything other than intimidating. Seeing them up close was to see something softer, the little red heart sequin that one girl had dotted underneath her right eye, the paw print tattoo that was visible just below the other girl’s ear. 

“I…I sent him a drink one night in a bar.” It was the first time he’d ever been asked the question, the first time anybody had enquired about his and Crowley’s romantic history. To everybody else, to Raphael and Tracy and all of Crowley’s friends, it had been a gradual thing, something they had watched blossom into being. To look back now and tell the story gave Zira a flush of pride, to know that _he_ had been the one to set things in motion, to take that first step by sending a ridiculous drink to a ridiculously handsome man.

“Oh my god, so smooth, it’s like a movie. Did you know? Did you know as soon as you saw him that he was the one?” By the time they had finished speaking Zira was fairly sure their voices had reached a pitch that only small children and animals could decipher but he understood the gist.

For somebody who had always held his cards so close to his chest they would have to be pried away with a crowbar, Zira was surprised just how easy it was for the girls to crack his veneer of shyness and peer inside at all the hushed gossip he held within, just waiting for somebody to encourage it out of him. It was a novelty he was extremely unfamiliar with, people being drawn to him for once, for being whole-heartedly interested in what he had to say. People were interested in what he _knew_, or paid an interest in him because somebody else, namely Crowley, had deemed him somebody worth being interested in, but Zira was hard-pressed to remember the last time people had looked at him as if _he_ might be just as interesting as his infinitely more charismatic counterpart.

_“Make up your mind_

_And I’ll promise you_

_I will treat you well_

_My sweet angel”_

“…and then the poor thing went to sleep with them _still_ in. His eyes the next morning, you should have seen it, we were a sight for sore eyes…literally.”

The three of them threw their heads back and laughed then, Zira thoroughly warmed at the memory of Crowley’s roar of relief when he had finally removed the more troublesome of the two snake eye lenses in the aftermath of that fateful Halloween night.

Speed dating and Halloween covered, the girls turned their attention to Zira’s line of work, asking what exactly the boyfriend of a guitarist did for a job, as if they half-expected his answer to be 'full time groupie'_. To be fair, _Zira thought, _that is pretty close to the mark these days. _He’d gathered from their conversation thus far that they really did believe Crowley’s career path lay solely in the realm of full time musician, something he didn’t have the heart to correct them on. Why ruin the dream? Besides, he wasn’t there to divulge all of the details of Crowley’s personal life…only the ones that related to precisely just how magic those hands really were. 

“Oh, I run a bookshop. Well, I ran a bookshop. It…actually burned down a few weeks ago.” He paused for a moment, looked down into his empty plastic cup, then shook his head and smiled brightly. “That’s why I’m, er, shacked up with the guitarist, as it were.”

“I’m so sorry about your shop, that’s so bad. But that’s so exciting though, that you get to _live_ together. The bookseller and the guitarist, it’s _so_ romantic.” 

“Yes, well, love story for the ages.” Zira raised an eyebrow, laughing as he thought of the contrast between the romanticised version of events the girls had descended into squealing about, asking if they spent their evenings reading poetry and playing songs to each other, and the mundane reality of life together. _Sometimes_, he wanted to say, _but usually we eat lasagne and bicker about whose turn it is to have a go on the harmonica. _Still, he reasoned, perhaps true romance wasn’t only found in the grand gestures, in the sweeping declarations, perhaps it lay just as heavily in the smaller moments, in breakfast in bed, in the little joy of huddling under a blanket and finishing the crossword together as the rain tapped gently against the windows.

_“You can lock me away if you want_

_Just as long as your arms are around me_

_And I won’t mind if you just throw away the key_

_I’m guilty of love, it’s a crime of passion”_

His rumination on the nature of romance was cut short when the girl on his left gestured down at his t-shirt which was, in fact, the only article of clothing that had not yet received a compliment during their conversation. “I really like your t-shirt too. You’ve got the whole, you know, bookseller chic thing going on.”

Zira looked down, tugging at the hemline to pull the band’s logo taut. _God, I’ve got to get some of my own clothes, it’s been a month, for heaven’s sake. _He thought back to that afternoon, to how patiently Crowley had laid stomach-down on the bed while Zira had furiously ripped through every item of clothing at his disposal in a panic about what to wear that night. Crowley had ferreted around in a box, then held out a bow tie that Raphael had kindly thought to provide him with. “What about this?”

“No, no, I want to fit in tonight.” Zira had shaken his head, taken the tie from Crowley’s hand and deposited it safely back in the box.

Crowley had rolled onto his back, sighing as he stared up at the ceiling, pointing blindly at the wardrobe. “Everyone fits in at the Den, angel, that’s what’s so good about it. Wear that, whatever I’m pointing to. You do realise this is a fruitless endeavour, don't you? I’m only going to want to rip it off as soon as you put it on.”

Zira smiled at the memory, then turned his attention back to the girls as he squinted to try and decipher the band name upside down. “Oh, oh, thank you. Yes, rather fond of this one. Er, _Pixies_, yes. Great music. Just splendid.”

“Oh my god, we saw them a couple of years ago, they were amazing. What’s your favourite song?”

“Oh, er, you know.” Zira shrugged, scoffed a couple of times as he looked around the room for inspiration. “Sweaty…walls…?”

The girls looked at each other, nodding slowly as if they’d just been granted access to an unreleased demo neither had heard of before. Before they could give any more thought to Zira’s dubious musical knowledge, Mick nudged Zira on the shoulder and passed him two chilled cups of gin, startling back as he spotted the girls beaming away at him.

“Evening, ladies.” Mick gave them a nod and eyed Zira with interest, wondering exactly what he’d missed in the fifteen minutes he’d spent queuing at the bar, if he might have wandered into an alternate universe where Zira was the one surrounded by screaming girls. Zira gave him a puzzled shrug, as if he wasn’t quite sure exactly how the situation had arisen either, and mouthed _thank you_. “I’ll be over here if you need me, son.”

_“Into your heart I’ll beat again_

_Sweet like candy to my soul_

_Sweet you rock and sweet you roll_

_Lost for you, I’m so lost for you”_

“Thanks for bearing with us, guys!” As Dan jogged out onto the stage and grabbed the mic, the rest of the band filtered out behind him and took up their positions, Crowley looking distinctly windswept, as if he’d been holding his head under a hand dryer for the entirety of the break, which, in fact, he had, in an attempt to dry the sweat from his hair. “Bassist needed a pizza break, drummer needed a new set of sticks…” Dan paused, glanced across at Crowley who was shooting him a desperate glare. “…Guitarist needed a cold shower, too much excitement in the first half, you know? We’re Lucifer and the Guys, on with the show!”

“We’ll be right back.” The girls leaned in on each side of Zira’s shoulders and whispered to him as Lily took centre stage, bass guitar hanging redundantly in front of her as she leaned in close to the mic. Zira nodded distractedly at them, momentarily having forgotten he had company as his focus shifted to the one person in the room who seemed to have a permanent spotlight shining over his head. _Hmm_, he mused, as they dashed off towards the toilets, _they really do go in pairs_.

_“You don’t ever have to_

_Be stronger than you really are_

_When you’re lying in my arms, baby_

_You don’t ever have to_

_Go faster than your fastest pace_

_Or faster than my fastest cars”_

It was Lily’s decadently husky voice that rang out across the club as the room fell still, a hundred pairs of eyes trained on her as she sang, staring straight ahead, giving no hint as to who the song was really meant for. If there had been any doubt in Zira’s mind as to who the song was dedicated to, it was washed away as he looked up at Crowley and found him staring back, lips curved into a little smile. He gave him the tiniest nod then, that last shred of confirmation that Zira needed. _Yes, yes it’s for you, all of it. Every word._ Crowley’s guitar was loose around his neck, Lily singing with nothing but Sammy’s steady drumbeat to accompany her, and he raised his hands to his chest, pressing his index fingers and thumbs together in the shape of a heart, a fleeting gesture that might have been missed by everybody else in the room but it didn’t matter, it was only meant for one person after all.

Zira looked down, fumbling desperately as he tried to comprehend how to replicate the symbol. It was useless. The closest he could come was a wonky circle that he hoped got the message across. He rolled his eyes at his own uselessness, frustration somewhat ebbing away as he caught sight of Crowley laughing on stage, shaking his head as if he couldn’t have felt any more fondness. _I might be a useless mess_, Zira thought, _but at least I'm your useless mess_. 

_“Didn’t we both know_

_That the nights were mainly made for saying things_

_That you can’t say tomorrow day?"_

Zira chuckled to himself as the opening bars of the band’s penultimate song kicked in and Crowley flashed him a wink. Of all the songs he’d added to the setlist, he had known this would be the one Zira recognised. He had, after all, played it to death in the flat and when it wasn’t playing over the speakers he was singing it, badly, while scrambling eggs, or warbling it in the shower as if he was performing to a crowd of thousands. It turned out all that needed to be done to get Zira to take to a song released in the last fifty years was play it, ad nauseam, until he cracked and committed it to memory.

What Crowley hadn’t realised was that playing the song so frequently had created something of a pavlovian response in Zira, who had come to find himself raring to go as soon as the first chorus rolled around, given the amount of times the song had been playing in the background as Crowley had backed him against a kitchen worktop and kissed him until he was dizzy, which was how almost every attempt at dinner preparation had ended that week.

That night, as he watched Crowley lean in close to Sammy’s microphone to purr out backing vocals, he found himself narrowing his eyes as he slowly ran his tongue along his teeth and wondered exactly how much time Crowley had intended on spending in the club after their set finished, whether he could get away with meeting him at the backstage door to haul him into a waiting taxi to speed them home without wasting a second. In _those_ jeans and _that_ jacket there was, indeed, no time at all to waste.

_“If you’re lost, you can look and you will find me_

_Time after time_

_If you fall, I will catch you, I’ll be waiting_

_Time after time”_

“Oh my gooood!” As the band began their final song and the room erupted into applause, the girls burst into wails so infectiously gleeful that Zira found himself uttering a little scream as he got lost in the moment, disguising it as a cough in a vain attempt to save face. It seemed as though everybody else in the room knew the song from its opening bars alone, and while Zira was none the wiser, he did very much appreciate the way Crowley’s fingers worked against the strings, picking out the song’s melody as Lily sang over the top if it.

The three of them stood arm in arm in front of the stage, Zira in the middle, as they swayed to the beat, the girls singing lyrics that he was only hearing for the first time. He was used to it, discovering media decades after the rest of the world, was happy enough in his little time capsule of a life, happy to be introduced to things at the snail’s pace he’d grown accustomed to. After all, what joy was greater than the first time of hearing a song that cut right to the core of you, every word seeming as though it may have been laid down just for your eyes and ears alone?

He looked up at the band and found the four of them singing together, Lily and Dan crowded around the mic that stood front and centre, Sammy and Crowley leaning in to the microphone angled in reach of the drum kit at the back. It was the way it had always been, Sammy and Crowley hanging back while Lily and Dan happily bounded into the spotlight. It was why it worked, their unconventional family; they knew each other’s strengths and weaknesses as innately as they knew their own, the need to discuss hierarchy and roles long since passed. 

Now all there was was the enjoyment of being with each other, for making almost-good music, for basking in the fun of getting to bring something to life together, even if they were occasionally out of tune or rhythm. What did a missed note matter when you were on stage with your best friends in the world? They looked out across the room then, the four of them aligned for the first time all night, their eyes seeking out Mick, as they always did when their show was coming to an end. After all, he was the one who had brought them together, who convinced the owner of the Den to book regular enough shows to give them something to keep rehearsing for, who patiently endured his garage serving as the dumping ground for their equipment between gigs. And there he was, solid as a rock, beaming fondly back at them as if he couldn’t be prouder. His family. His madcap, chaotic, brilliant family.

As the song wound on, a tribute to picking up the pieces and beginning again, Zira thought about everything he had lost, everything he had gained in its place, the way his life had changed so irrevocably over the months. There he was in an underground club, wearing clothes that weren’t his own, dancing arm in arm with his soulmate’s groupies as they watched a particularly gorgeous guitarist strut about on stage. And, best of all, he would be heading home shortly with the aforementioned gorgeous guitarist. 

_You know what you need to do, good sir, you’d better march up that man as soon as he’s finished and tell him he’s the greatest love of your lifetime._

Zira batted away the voice, too enraptured by the music to pay it much mind. _Not tonight, dear, settle down._

Lily whispered the final words of the song into the microphone and Crowley unshrugged his guitar, wrapping one hand around the neck as he made for the backstage door while Lily’s final note was still ringing out across the room. The crowd descended into applause and he nudged the backstage door open, desperate to pack up his equipment and get to Zira without a moment’s hesitation. As it turned out, not being able to do anything other than stare lovingly at him for an hour was infinitely more frustrating than he’d ever imagined.

“Steady on, mate,” Sammy whispered, brandishing a drumstick in his direction.

Crowley paused, turning back towards the stage as Dan surged forward to take the microphone from Lily. A second too late, Crowley spotted the mischievous look on Sammy’s face. _Oh no. Oh no, oh no. What have they done?_

“Thanks so much for coming tonight, we’ve been Lucifer and the Guys. Decayed Disease are on next so grab a drink and stick around. Shoutout to our guitarist for coming up with tonight’s setlist for a special someone. Great job, mate. And now we’ve just got one last song for you guys.”

“_What?_” Crowley hissed, looking to each of his bandmates for an answer and receiving nothing but angelic grins in response. “There isn’t _one last song_.” 

“Surprise, Little Brother. We thought you might need a nudge. You can thank us tomorrow.” Lily gave him an innocent shrug, then swung her bass strap over her shoulder as she counted the guys in.

And then, before Crowley could create a diversion by cutting off the entire power supply to the Den, not that he knew how to orchestrate such a plan, Sammy launched into a drumbeat that filled him with dread. He would know that opening riff anywhere, anybody would, even if that night it was taking place on a drum kit rather than a synthesiser. Then Lily came swooping in with the bassline and he realised what they had done.

_“You let me violate you_

_You let me desecrate you…”_

“You fuckers,” he mouthed, giving each of them a death stare before he shrugged his guitar strap back on, strummed a few lacklustre chords and prayed to every deity in the realm of human consciousness that Zira wasn’t paying too much attention to the lyrics. Curse Dan and his flawless enunciation to the pits of hell.

The chorus hit, as Crowley was dreading it would, had hoped perhaps that lightning would strike the Den instead, some miracle from the ether to save him from the embarrassment. Alas, the lyrics rang out as the crowd pulsed forward as one, arms in the air as they sang the words back at twice the volume of Dan’s microphone, as if every single one of them was playing a part in Crowley’s on-stage humiliation. _Of all the horrors they’ve subjected me to_, he lamented, _this is the one that might finish me off for good_.

_My only hope_, Crowley thought desperately, _my only hope is that he’s not listening, that we’ve temporarily deafened him. He was standing next to a speaker, is it too much to dream?_

It was, unfortunately, too much to dream, as he risked a look and found Zira standing right in front of the stage, eyebrow raised, a wicked smile on his face as he stood arm in arm with the two girls who followed Crowley from gig to gig, the two girls Zira had been so worried about he had almost backed out of coming to the show. Crowley stared back, jaw agape, a combination of the performance high, abject humiliation and tequila rendering his mind capable of nothing but a single thought: _What the HELL is going on tonight?_

***

When Crowley finally managed to jog down the backstage steps and emerge into the sweltering fog of the club he found Zira in the most unlikely of situations: with an arm slung around each of the two girls he had been so nervous of, a gin in each hand, nattering away as if the three of them had been best friends for eons. As if some sort of extrasensory dog walker perception was working overtime in his mind, he looked up and caught sight of Crowley just as he drew up alongside them.

“Here he is, my glorious rockstar!” His face erupted into an expression of pure glee and he unhooked his arms from the two girls, nodding from one to the other. “My dear, you know Clara and Bella, don’t you? Lovely girls. Terrible misunderstanding, the whole _bra_ incident, nothing to do with them, they assure me. They don’t have a _clue_ where you live. Didn’t tell them, not an idiot, you see. Anyway, they’re not groupies!”

Zira grinned at him, bleary-eyed with gin as he advanced towards Crowley, draping one limp arm around his neck as Crowley wrapped an arm around his waist, for the dual purpose of keeping him upright and, finally, getting to be close to him for the first time all evening.

“Groupies?!” the girls chorused, looking incredulously from Zira to Crowley, eyes widening as realisation dawned on them. “We’re not…we’re not _groupies._”

“Well, of _course_ you’re not,” Zira slurred, waving their shock away with one hand, spilling half of his drink in the process. “Whoops. Oh well. Excuse me, girls, will you? I think my man deserves a drink. Come on, Sergeant Snake Hips. To the world! No, that’s not right. To the bar!” 

“That’s a _code_ name,” Crowley hissed in his ear, before smiling placidly at the girls, stumbling under the weight that was Zira suddenly bending down to try and retrieve an ice cube he’d dropped on the floor. “Was he, er, did he have a good time?” 

“Kept ordering two gins at a time, said it was the only way to beat the system. Still not sure what he meant,” Clara explained, nodding down to the two cups Zira was gingerly trying to hold in one hand so he could scratch an itch on the side of his nose. She dropped her voice then, as if she'd suddenly realised who she was talking to. “You were really good. All of you. We really like seeing you guys live, you’re always look like you’re having fun. Some bands look so serious, you know?”

“Yeah.” Crowley laughed, unpeeling Zira’s stray hand from the waistband of his jeans. “Those are the ones who are usually in tune. Thanks for coming and thanks for, er, supervising this one.”

“Now ladies.” Zira stood up straight then, his expression far too serious for somebody who was wearing half a glass of gin and tonic on his shoes. “It was delightful to make your acquaintance but I think I’ll be stealing him away, if you don’t mind.”

Giving Crowley a shy little wave, the girls turned their attention to Zira, chorusing their goodbyes in perfect sync. “Bye, Zira! See you next time. Good luck with the books.”

“Sweet things, aren’t they?” Zira tugged Crowley in the direction of the bar, pulling his used-and-abused bank card out of his pocket as they made their way through the crowd. “Tequila, is it?”

“…What the hell happened while I was on stage?”

***

_I need to slow down, _Crowley thought, as he staggered against Zira and felt the bookseller’s grip on his waist tighten.

_Nonsense, little man. Just one more won’t hurt, will it? You did good tonight._

As he stepped up as the responsible adult who was marginally less worse for wear, Zira focused all of his mental energy on keeping Crowley upright, nodding earnestly along with what Sammy was saying to him and hoping his energetic agreement wasn’t offensive. _Gosh, I really should take it easy if I want to be able to walk out of here unassisted. But the gin, it tastes too good. Just one more before we go, perhaps._

_Better make it two, you know how it is, old chap. Beat the system._

Zira nodded again, unsure exactly how ordering two gins at a time helped to beat the system but had learned that arguing with himself was futile. Easier to just give in. Besides, two gins were always better than one. 

“Wow.” Lily stopped speaking to look the two of them up and down, her eyes flicking across to Sammy in the hope that he had any idea what in the world had gotten into the dog walker and bookseller who were decidedly worse for wear. “You two are going to be out cold if you keep this up.” 

They laughed, arms around each other, Crowley nuzzling Zira’s neck as Zira pressed two kisses to his forehead. He stroked a hand through Crowley’s hair, gazing at him as intently as if they were the only two people in the room, oblivious to the fact that a very loud, very uncensored version of Debased Desire was blasting out from the stage. “You were so good tonight. I loved the songs, I loved every single one of them. You’re so amazing, my beautiful, talented, sexy-” 

“Should we…should we be watching this?” Lily asked, looking at the others for back up. They shrugged, torn between confusion and intrigue. It was almost unfathomable to see their notoriously chilly-dispositioned baby brother bathing in affection, grinning up at Zira as if he was the most awe-inspiring thing he’d ever seen. “I feel like I’m watching two puppies fight over who loves the other one the most.”

“Bar?” Dan asked, just as Crowley slid a hand up to Zira’s cheek and they met in a kiss that quickly tumbled headfirst from chaste to salacious. “Oh, well there they go.” 

“You know guys,” Lily said, grabbing for Dan and Sammy’s hands, “I like to think we played a part in making this happen.”

“Yeah.” Sammy nodded slowly as he heard Crowley whisper a lifelong devotion to Zira’s perfect curls, shortly before the two of them shot towards the stairs, hand in hand, looking like they might spontaneously combust if they didn’t get somewhere private in the next two seconds. “You and your defence eyeliner have a lot to answer for.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Good morning/afternoon/evening everybody! Happy Tuesday, I hope you all had a wonderful day and enjoy today's chapter :D. I broke the 10,000 word limit for the first time ever - I feel like every chapter is longer than the one before but, boy, this one was a beast.
> 
> As is customary, for those who are that way inclined I've put together a playlist of the setlist Crowley decided on for the gig...including the 'bonus' track the band saw fit to surprise him with...in case anyone wasn't sure it was Closer by Nine Inch Nails, because of course. That chorus though 👀.
> 
> The playlist is here: https://open.spotify.com/playlist/10nLS8k4dsRrhPQaf76B5Y
> 
> Shoutout to lovely CynSyn and AlchemyAssist for suggesting Possum Kingdom and Check Yes Juliet as setlist songs - thanks loves <3
> 
> The next chapter is coming on Friday!
> 
> Can't wait to hear what you guys think - I'll be lurking in the comments this evening <3


	28. Do It Again

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “I wanted to throw it,” Zira explained, reaching down to tug it out of Crowley’s grip. “You just get the urge sometimes, don’t you?”

**February. Pimlico, London.**

“You can’t kick us out, it was _over_ the jeans, for heaven’s sake!” Zira staggered out into the road, furiously waving a fist in the air as he bellowed after the taxi that was speeding away from them, twin taillights twinkling in the haze of rain.

“Angel, calm down.” Crowley grabbed the back of his collar in one fist and hauled him back onto the wet pavement, shaking droplets of water from his hair. “He didn’t kick us out, we’re back home.”

“Oh.” Zira looked around, forehead creasing as he squinted at the same row of buildings that had stood there when he’d left the flat earlier that day. “But we’re…but we’re miles away. This doesn’t look anything like…the Love Nest is nowhere near here.”

“What? What are you…I mean, we can start calling it that if you want.” Crowley shrugged, then raised both eyebrows as if he was quite taken with the idea. “It has a nicer ring than _the flat_, doesn’t it?”

“I don’t know, ignore me. Gin. Would say I’ve had too much but is there such a thing? Perish the thought.”

Crowley looked Zira up and down, found Raphael’s jacket hanging limply off of one shoulder, streaks of gin stains down his thighs that were rapidly being joined by raindrops. His cheeks were flushed pink, hair a wild mess of damp curls tumbling over his forehead, wild-eyed as that juniper-tinged infusion pounded through his bloodstream. Crowley staggered a pace to the left, eyes closed as a hiccup gave way to a yawn. “You look pretty good to me, angel.”

When he opened his eyes, Zira was gone.

He whirled around, one hand flying out to steady himself against a nearby wall. _God, I should not have had that last tequila. Or the four before it. Or the wine. Why was I drinking wine, for god’s sake?_

“What are you doing?” he shouted, catching sight of Zira galloping off in the opposite direction with a traffic cone gripped menacingly in one hand, roaring words that were lost to the wind. Crowley heard the distant wail of a police car siren and ran after him, wrenching the plastic cone out of his hands when he caught up. “Give me that.”

“I wanted to throw it,” Zira explained, reaching down to tug it out of Crowley’s grip. “You just get the urge sometimes, don’t you?”

“No. No, I don’t get the urge. Put that down.” He braced one hand against Zira’s chest to hold him at arm’s length, perched on the edge of the cone before things could escalate further. “Do you hear that? That’s a police siren. You’re not allowed to steal and destroy traffic cones. It’s against the _rules_. Can’t have you getting locked up, can we?”

“Oh, I don’t know, Crowley. I rather think I could come round to the idea of being chained up.” Zira leaned against him, out of desire or drunkenness Crowley couldn’t be sure, but he wasn’t one to argue with physical contact. “Aren’t you supposed to have your guitar with you?”

“_Shit_!” Crowley jumped up, ripping his phone out of his back pocket and thumbing out an emergency text to Lily. It was quite the testament to his commitment to inebriation that he’d sprinted out of the Den behind Zira without giving a second thought to his precious instrument, so preoccupied he was with thoughts of a different type of precious instrument all together.

He heard a cackle, turned back around and found Zira merrily whirling the traffic cone overheard before slinging it into a nearby bush, punching the air with victorious glee. “Take that, insurance company!”

“You’ve been speaking to them for a month and you still can’t remember their name,” Crowley said, more of an observation than a question. Before he could ruminate on Zira’s terrible memory for company names any further, he rolled his eyes and broke into a run, chasing down the bookseller as he honed in on a second traffic cone. “Stop that!”

“Make me.”

As it turned out, distracting Zira from the seductive call of traffic cones wasn’t much of a challenge. A nearby wall to rest against, a kiss and, well, that was it actually. Crowley felt fingers curl around his thigh, laid his hand on top of Zira’s to press it to the front of his jeans. The bookseller broke away from him then, smiling drunkenly against his lips. “Someone’s keen, and all it took was a kiss.”

“All it ever takes is a kiss, sometimes not even that. You know me, easily pleased.” He hopped up onto the damp wall and looked up at the sky as the rain poured down on them. “Always found it romantic, the rain.”

“Yes, yes, gloriously romantic.” Zira slid his fingers up into Crowley’s wet hair, thumbs pressed to his jaw as he pulled him down into a kiss.

It wasn’t enough. There was still distance between them, still something of their bodies not touching, a gap that needed to be closed. It wouldn’t do, not when the gin was flowing freely through his veins, whispering that mounting both the wall and Crowley was the best idea he’d had all evening. With both hands gripping the slippery bricks, Zira clambered up onto the wall until he was straddling Crowley’s legs, moaned into his mouth as he felt teeth dig gently into his bottom lip, a hand sliding up underneath the back of his t-shirt. _Closer. Closer. Let me get closer to you. I need it. I need you. Kiss me again. Harder._

There was, contrary to Zira’s belief, such a thing as _too hard_, as his determination to kiss Crowley into oblivion hadn’t accounted for the fact there was nothing on the wall to lean _against_, leaving them both tumbling backwards into the neighbouring yew bush in an ungainly mass of limbs and laughter.

“God, I would hate us if I wasn’t one of us.” A moment later Crowley staggered out from the bush, brushing himself down and sending a wave of brittle leaves cascading to the ground. He extended a hand and tugged Zira free, plucking a stray leaf out of his hair. “Are you all right?”

“Tip top!” Zira cried, reached out to pull a broken twig out from under the collar of Crowley’s jacket, laughing as he looked back at the bush that seemed to have come off worse in the Battle of the Bookseller. “How perfectly rock and roll of us.”

“Yes, taking a tumble into nearby topiary, Keith Moon would be so proud.”

“Who?”

“Exactly. Very good, angel.” Crowley nodded proudly, blissfully unaware that it had been a question and not confirmation that his attempt at taking charge of Zira’s musical education had been a success. “Come on, it’s pouring. Let’s get inside.”

“And get chips?”

“Yes, excellent idea.”

As Crowley and Zira swaggered across the pavement, loosely hand in hand, bleating into the night about the magic of late night chips, a businessman jumped back to avoid a collision, swinging his briefcase as he growled at them. “Watch it!”

Crowley looked down at his watch, wondered how they’d managed to wile away enough hours kissing on the wall that it was almost time for the early morning business rush. _Oh_. _Not even midnight? How are we so drunk so early?_ And then he snapped out of his train of thought as Zira tugged him across the road, eyes fixed on a nearby temporary traffic light set up.

“What is it with you and traffic management equipment? _Leave it alone_!”

***

“Barnaby!” Zira ducked under Crowley’s arm as the dog walker slammed the door to the flat open. “Barnaby, where are you, you handsome hound? I want a snuggle, _Barnaby!_”

“Angel…you really don’t pay attention to…anything, do you? He’s at the Shadwells’. They came and picked him up earlier, remember? Thought we were going to have a late night, didn’t we?” Crowley yawned, covering his mouth with one hand as he staggered into the flat behind Zira and collapsed dramatically, sprawled across the sofa as if he’d just finished running a marathon. “Those three flights of stairs really take it out of you, don’t they?”

“Do they?” Zira asked, poking his head up from behind the sofa as he rummaged in the cupboard for one of the whisky bottles.

“God, I have got to start running again. Tomorrow morning. I’ll start again tomorrow morning. Remind me, will you?” Crowley laid the back of one hand to his forehead, wiped away the perspiration and promised himself it was just rain. He unlocked his phone with the other hand, firing off an obligatory Uber Eats order before setting an alarm for eight in the morning. That sounded reasonable. It wasn’t even midnight yet. He could be back from a relaxing early morning jog by nine and get straight on with rustling up a _healthy_ breakfast for them both. It sounded very much like a perfectly wholesome Sunday morning. Who said musicians were all hell raisers?

“Start running _again_? You told me you’ve been on one run since we met.” Zira scrambled to his feet, whisky bottle in one hand, two glasses clutched in the other. He wasn’t sure exactly where the desire for more alcohol had come from but the mood had struck and he wasn’t one to argue with the simple pleasure of enjoying a nightcap before bed. Or sofa. He wasn’t sure whose turn it was to pretend they were going to sleep in the living room.

“Yes, all right. Who made you the bloody fitness police?” Crowley rolled his eyes, taking the bottle from Zira’s hand and slamming both glasses down on the table a little harder than he intended. He squinted, trying his hardest to get as much whisky as possible into the glasses and as little as possible onto the floor. It wasn’t his most successful endeavour of the evening.

“Well, I think you’re perfect exactly as you are.” Zira plopped down next to him on the sofa, pulling one skinny thigh up into his lap. The noise Crowley made in response could have been recorded as the verbal evocation of _simpering_.

“It would be nice to be able to run up the stairs without thinking I'm going to collapse, though,” he reasoned, after he’d recovered from the unexpected compliment, passing Zira an overflowing glass as he wiped the table clean with the hem of his t-shirt.

“Oh, don’t ruin that, I’m getting quite used to having your cast offs.” Zira laughed, one hand lazily massaging Crowley’s thigh while the other brought his glass to his lips for a good long gulp of whisky.

“You should keep that one, it looks better on you anyway.” Crowley leaned over to him, both hands running down the front of the borrowed t-shirt he was wearing.

“Yes,” Zira mused. “I’m growing rather fond of my new gothic aesthetic.”

Crowley looked down at the rest of Zira’s outfit: beige trousers, cream socks that went so far as to be part of the same original pair, and burst out laughing. “A real creature of the night, aren’t you?”

***

“You were wonderful tonight,” Zira murmured, arms linked behind Crowley’s back as the two of them lay entwined on the sofa, cartons of chips discarded on the coffee table, one melted McFlurry perched dangerously close to the edge. He pressed a kiss to the top of Crowley’s head, felt the dog walker’s arms tighten around him. “I’m not just saying that because of this, you really are talented.”

“I don’t know, it’s just a bit of fun.” Crowley turned his head to one side, stared out across the living room as he rested his cheek against Zira’s chest, felt the worn softness of his t-shirt against his skin. “I think I always play better when you’re there. Someone to show off to. Did you like it? The setlist, I mean.”

Zira shifted, sitting up against the arm of the sofa, looking down at him. “Of course I did, did you not see me dancing? I’d have been singing if I’d have known any words, everybody else was. Everybody loved it, but not as much as I did. Did you really…I mean, was all of that…was it really about us?”

Crowley swallowed, staring down at a stray chip that had found its way underneath the coffee table. _I mustn’t forget to pick that up in the morning_. Honesty. He bleated on about priding himself on being honest. It was just that particular night it felt like a terrifying notion to confess to Zira that every single song had been chosen for a specific purpose, a specific set of words that he was too afraid to put his own voice to.

_Little man, what was the point of it all if you’re still not going to be honest with him?_

_You’re right, mate. _Crowley glanced down at the front of his jeans, gave a small smile of appreciation. _You’re right._

“It was about you, angel, every word. About you and me. About us.” His voice wavered with the effects of the amalgamation of alcohol beverages that he had consumed in much too quick succession but there was no fear there, no more hesitation about whether to speak the words aloud. They were out there and it was too late to take them back. Perhaps the alcohol have served its purpose then, lowering his inhibitions to the point that telling Zira the truth felt less like a horrifying ordeal and more like relief.

The bookseller sniffed, looked down at the sweep of fiery hair that came to rest messily between his own collarbones as Crowley curled against him. It was an impossibility he could barely fathom, that the man who fit so perfectly in his arms, who had strutted across stage with the entire club in the palm of his hand not two hours before was saying those words to him, had said those beautiful words earlier. Whether he had written them or whether they had come out of his mouth was irrelevant. He had chosen them, each and every one. _This is impossible. He’s impossible._

_He is. He’s magic. Don’t you ever let him go. Don’t ever let anything come between you. Not life, not duty, not yourselves. Especially not yourselves. _The voice spoke with a note of fondness but there was a hint of a warning barely concealed amongst the affection. It sounded like something that spoke from a lifetime of experience, a notion Zira smiled at as he shook the voice away and sleepily spoke his own truth into the night.

“This sort of thing doesn’t happen to people like me.”

Crowley looked up at him, grinning wickedly, leaning up to kiss him hard enough that, when they broke apart, he felt Zira's chest heave underneath his palms. He peeled the bookseller’s t-shirt off and ran both hands over his warm skin, one hand sliding underneath his back as he pulled him up. “What?” he murmured, pausing to stifle a yawn before he ran his tongue slowly from Zira’s chest to neck, smiling as he felt fingernails tighten against his back. “Beautiful, brilliant, perfect booksellers don’t get serenaded in dingy little nightclubs?”

“It’s not my regular Saturday night activity.” Zira laughed, a sound that died in the air, transformed into a groan of pleasure as Crowley’s hand slipped inside his trousers and closed around him. “And here I was thinking you were going to make me wait even longer.”

“I got to watch you looking up at me all night, what do you say we turn the tables?”

And then he moved down, down, down Zira’s body, tugging his trousers off as he went, and all Zira could do was lose a hand in his hair, stare down into those golden eyes, and bite his lip in the vain hope it would keep him quiet enough not to wake the neighbours.

***

**Later That Night.**

Crowley opened his eyes, found himself face to face with that curved red cardboard container that had been a siren song for so many years. He reached out a hand, still lazy from sleep, and pawed inside it until he closed his fingers around the prize. He deposited the cold, floppy chip into his mouth and uttered a guttural growl of heavenly bliss.

“The best, even when they’re shit.” He groaned the words lustily, relishing the taste and reaching for another. And another.

He sat up, slowly flexing the fingers of his left hand as he gently tugged it free from underneath the bookseller’s thigh. They had fallen asleep afterwards in a tangle of limbs and clothes, the frantic need to finish undressing each other abandoned as the alcohol had kicked in and left them powerless to the mercy of sleep before the clock had even struck half past midnight, such was the consequence of beating the system with two gins at a time.

He looked down at the bookseller who lay sleeping beneath him, reached out a thumb to stroke gently against his forehead, pulled back at the last minute. _No. Let him sleep a little while longer._

Standing up on shaky legs, he took one unsteady step and then another, kicking each foot once or twice before walking over to the lamp to click it on, bathing the room in warm light that illuminated the living space. He looked down, rolled his eyes and tugged the fly of his jeans closed. _Are you my dick? Idiot._

He leaned back against the sideboard, fingers curled around the edge of the wood, taking in all the little fragments that made up a life. A newspaper folded in half and left to rest on the dining table, a bin half filled with crumpled envelopes, discarded receipts, an empty crisp packet. He smiled. Such inconsequential things but, together, they told a story.

Pushing himself away from the sideboard, he took two lazy steps towards the double windows, paused to run a finger along a trailing string-of-pearls succulent that was nestled in a brightly coloured pot on a shelf next to the window. He closed his eyes, sighing at the feeling of the plant’s cool, plump leaves against his fingertip. He laid the back of his index finger against the soil. Not too moist. Good.

He opened one of the windows and peered into the night, breathing in as deeply as if he’d just surfaced from the ocean floor. Cool air poured over him as he leaned out, forearms resting on the windowsill. The pavements reflected the streetlights that craned out above them, a line of halos shining back from the wet stone. Buses rumbled down the busy road, headlights cutting through the darkness, those thick beams illuminating passersby as they dashed across the pedestrian crossing, umbrellas held aloft as they rushed home. There was the sound of voices rising up from the street below, the faint strains of music playing out into the night as bar doors swung open and closed, as late night takeaway chains propped their doors open in a bid to lure in drunken revellers, to _tempt_ them. Crowley looked at the crumpled brown bag on the coffee table, smiled again. He never could resist temptation. Ironic, really.

He stared up at the stars, marvelled at how small they looked, as if he could hold them in the palm of his hand. Clarity had been hard to come by in recent months; all the time in the world to relive that long life, it had skewed his perspective until he was left startled by something as simple as the size of the stars in the sky. They had seemed so much bigger once before. Of course, he had been so much closer back then, had walked among them, even created a few. He cupped his hands in front of his face, smiled at the way it looked as though he was poised to scoop up a galaxy, as if he could pluck it clean from the sky.

The rain. How different existence might have been if not for the rain on that pivotal day. The first rain that had ever fallen. What a journey it had set in motion. A wing held aloft over his head, the first kindness another soul had shown him since he gave up the right to deserve it. He had fallen once before, plummeted into the depths of hell, but that was the moment he truly fell. And he would never stop.

He held out his hands, let the rain patter against his bare forearms, closed his eyes to savour the blissful feeling of raindrops caressing his skin.

Touch. It was a need so human but something he had come to rely on. In the early days, when people would recoil in horror if they so much as brushed past him in the street, the feeling of fingers running through his hair, of fingertips raking gently across his scalp, the warm flush of skin against skin was the only way he had clung to the notion of there being anything good left inside him at all. It shouldn’t have meant so much, the ability to touch another body, to press a kiss to a pair of lips, to squeeze another hand once, twice, three times, that touch standing in lieu of words too dangerous to speak aloud. No, touch shouldn’t have meant anything at all to a demon. He was, after all, nothing but a soul. The body he had found a temporary shelter inside wasn’t his, was just a flesh and blood copy of the body that had burned away in the fire that had left an angel and a demon untethered, that had led them there,_ somewhere._

A pair of arms wrapped around his waist as a chin came to rest against his shoulder. He felt an exhale against his skin, trembled at the feeling of soft breath against his neck. It was too much. It wasn't enough. He turned his head, kissed the angel with a sigh that was near enough a weep of relief.

“That was risky. What if that hadn’t been me?”

Aziraphale. The other half of his soul. 

“As if I couldn’t find you anywhere, angel. I found you in another world. All I had to do was think about home.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Good evening angels/demons, hope you've had a great week! I hope you enjoyed the end of the gig night...or is the night just beginning? 🤔
> 
> If I'm honest, I just want one of you to have laughed at my Keith Moon/Who? joke because it might be the proudest I am of anything I've ever written 😂.
> 
> Next chapter is coming on Sunday!
> 
> Shoutout to my forever love CynSyn for creating the *most* gorgeous, hilarious, incredible art to go alongside chapter 13 (AKA, the post-Halloween contact lens debacle). You can see it heeere: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21078542. And while you're there you should check out everything else she's painted and written as it's magic <3.


	29. To Be Alone With You

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “It was my first creation, Crowley. Mistakes were bound to be made.” Aziraphale bit the words out, burrowing one finger under the ankle of the demon’s jeans to stroke a pattern against his calf.

**February. Crowley’s Flat, London.**

“It’s beautiful, isn’t it?” Crowley slid his fingers through Aziraphale’s, crossed their hands tightly over his stomach, lips curving into a soft smile at the feeling of the angel’s body pressed against his back. _Exactly where you belong. Never leave me again. _“This world, this city.”

“Our city.” Aziraphale leaned over Crowley’s shoulder and stared down at the street below, gazing upon his creation through the sharp lens of his own vision for the first time. People rushed by as they always had, life continuing uninterrupted. The slick pavement was a dirty mirror, reflections smeared and twisted into something that was new, something that had only the hint of familiarity.

“Your city. You created it.” Crowley corrected him gently, turning his head to brush the tip of his nose against the angel’s cheek.

“Yes, for you. You told me once you wanted to do good one last time, what about for the rest of time?”

Crowley smiled sadly, the recollection of that night flowering in his memory. Just days before the rapture. How was it possible so little time has passed since then? It could have been a century ago. The glint of moonlight sharp on the broken glass that lay in the sink. The steady drip of blood against stainless steel. Every drop marked another second lost from the hourglass of their last precious days together. Hopelessness, that had been what he had felt, the absolute impossibility that the end of their story lay in anything other than fire and ruin. To be snuffed out, it had seemed, was to be the only escape for their two lost souls, forever entwined, even in death.

The regret had been the most bitter pill to swallow, the one thing he couldn’t unshackle himself from. The guilt of a life spent spreading misery, of a life spent slowly poisoning the place he had loved, the place he had believed in so completely. Then there had been Aziraphale standing in front of him in the home they had been brave enough to name, soft concern in his eyes, holding him close and listening as he sobbed of his desperation to do one last good act, the need to leave one final mark of goodness on the world.

And then the garden, Aziraphale’s goodbye gift to him, the last chance for his wretched soul to find peace. With it he had created something beautiful, something good. It wasn’t beyond salvation then, his soul. He hadn’t lost it, the ability to create, to usher life into being with nothing but the desire to create it in his heart. Yet it was Aziraphale who had brought them to this place, who had made an entire world out of nothing, fuelled only by his own resolute stubbornness. One last rebellion against heaven. As it turned out, the judgement for love was not to be death. It was, in Aziraphale’s mind, to be life. New life. Eternal life, perhaps. Two creators. Two souls. And now, finally, one home.

Aziraphale pressed his forehead to Crowley’s shoulder, closing his eyes and focusing on nothing but the beating of a heart against the palm of his hand. _At last. At last, after these long months, my love, here you are. Here we are._

“I used to think the only reason it beat was to bring me back to you. Now I know it’s true,” Crowley murmured, as he stared out the window, his gaze fixed on the stars, beyond them, up where the heavens might lay. “Is there a heaven here, angel?” 

“I…” Aziraphale trailed off as his eyes opened and he joined Crowley in looking up into the infinite sprawl of space. _Was _there a heaven out there, connected to his world? Was there a hell? Were they too tethered to Earth to stand alone from Gabriel’s heaven, from Satan’s hell? The heaven and hell they had served for so long was, of course, just one of many celestial realms. Nothing singular, nothing unique. It was a testament to their intrinsic narcissism that they had spent so long believing in the notion of a single ethereal realm, that their heaven was the only set of golden gates in existence, that hell was hell absolute; one pit of burning sulphur, one lake of bubbling fury.

Aziraphale sighed, nose nestled against the crook between Crowley’s jaw and neck as he pressed a kiss to the demon’s skin. All of the trouble it had caused, daring to believe that there might be others like them, a hundred heavens, a thousand hells, a million other worlds with all the love and life and pain and laughter that theirs had come to hold across the millennia. It was a dangerous thing, to take authority to the side and whisper the words that could render them that which they feared more than anything else: commonplace. How would the mighty Archangel Gabriel, de facto leader of heaven, react as knowledge ricocheted around heaven’s walls that they were nothing but one of many, one cog in an infinite office chain? And what would happen to those fearless enough to ask the question, to set that bullet in motion, to stand tall in the cloud of dust from that smoking gun? _Well_, Aziraphale thought bitterly, hugging Crowley tighter, _they had found out, hadn’t they, all of them?_

“I don’t know,” he said finally, tongue pressed to the roof of his mouth as he contemplated his own immeasurable stupidity. _Good work as always, old chap, you made damn sure there was a crepe stand for every day of the month but did you think for a second it might be worth architecting some sort of celestial realm the two of you could have safely burrowed away in for eternity, a fortress of protection to keep you undetected, a set of human vessels that weren’t hellbent on fighting back? Didn’t cross your mind, did it? Are there any risks you won’t take for crepes, for heaven’s sake?_ “Rather a lot I don’t know about this place. Not so easy to embark on a research jolly when Agent Angel Face is at the helm and he can’t think beyond his next meal.” 

“Those are code names, and those are private,” Crowley scolded, remembering Anthony’s flash of humiliation in the club earlier that night. Perhaps it should have worried him more, the confirmation that Aziraphale knew more about the world’s late night food establishments that he did about the existence of an afterlife, that he didn’t have all the answers. He would though, in time; Crowley had come to trust that the angel always had a plan, even if it took him until the eleventh hour to dream it up. There was a sense of peace in it, the realisation that all he had to do was close his eyes and follow his angel home, even if that home ended up being temporary shelter inside a body that already taken. “What’s it like? For you, I mean, being in there?”

“It’s like wandering the desert. Every step I take I can see you, you’re right in front of me but it’s just a mirage. I can’t reach out, I can’t touch you. Even if I could, it wouldn’t be you, wouldn’t _really_ be you.” 

He turned to face Aziraphale, leaning back against the edge of the windowsill as the rain torrented down outside, splashing against his fingertips. A lazy smile, eyes narrowed just so. An invitation that was very much overdue. “It is tonight.”

There was only the depth of Aziraphale’s eyes, an ocean that night, something dark and wild, the feeling of a warm hand coming to rest behind his head, the sweet crush of lips against his own. And then they were reaching for each other desperately, a low moan escaping Aziraphale’s lips as Crowley ran a hand down the inside of his forearm, fingertips soft as a breath against his skin.

Crowley had grown used to every kiss feeling like a kiss goodbye, as if it might be their last, as if the magnitude of everything he felt couldn’t possibly lead anywhere other than destruction. That last, lingering kiss before he left to stand in heaven and confess his sins; the last kiss of all, that day in the park when the world ended, the last kiss that pair of lips had ever felt; those two brief kisses they’d stolen when their mortal counterparts couldn’t contain them any longer. On that night, though, as he felt Aziraphale’s eyelashes against his cheek, the angel’s lips soft against his own, the sound of fingertips slipping against the condensation on the windowpane, it didn’t feel like the end of something. It felt like hope. Like the beginning of something brighter and more infinite than they had ever dared to dream of.

They broke apart, searching each other’s eyes for confirmation, smiling when they found each other there, still.

“We won’t wake them?” Crowley asked, hands laced at the small of Aziraphale’s back, pressing their hips together as he brought one foot up to rest against the wall.

Aziraphale shook his head, laughing. “Not this time. They’re out for the count. _That’s_ how you beat the system.”

“Nice job following my lead.” Crowley winked, wondering how long it had taken the angel to notice his little temptation of a shot of tequila on stage between each song.

“Oh, you think you’re the only one who came up with that idea? Why do you think this one was so merry by the time the show was over?” Aziraphale pursed his lips indignantly, forever staking his claim as the celestial being who dabbled in the hedonist pursuit of excess more so than any other. It wasn’t a difficult claim to stake. After all, there were only two of them who had any interest in excess at all. _Probably why the rest of them are so darn insufferable_.

“Mmm, great minds.” Crowley ran a finger under his chin. They fell quiet for a moment, foreheads pressed together as they closed their eyes, hands finding their way to each other’s chests, to feel the reassurance of a beating heart once more. “So, here we are. One night together.” 

“It’s not enough.” Aziraphale kissed him, tried to force away the memory of a time when he had heard Crowley say those same words to him, back when he had been afraid, when even a kiss would have felt like a death sentence. 

A smile against his lips. He opened his eyes, found Crowley looking back with an eyebrow raised, relishing the role reversal at long last. “It has to be, angel.”

“Oh, how long have you been waiting to turn that back on me?”

“It’s been a few centuries.” He shrugged, leaning back to fix Aziraphale with a cool look. "You know, because you made me wait for six thousand years.”

_And not a moment goes by that I don’t regret it. _He pulled the demon close, reached out to trace the lines of his face, swallowing hard when he felt lips press a kiss to the soft pad of his thumb. “And I’ll spend the next six thousand making up for it.”

“I think you’ve made a good start. A new world? Not a bad gift.” Crowley turned to gesture out of the window, flecks of rain against his skin catching the moonlight. He turned back to Aziraphale, a mischievous glint in his eyes as he reached for his hand. “Come on, angel. We’ve got all night. Let’s have some fun. When was the last time we had _fun_?”

“Mmm, yes.” Aziraphale sucked in a breath, cocking his head to the side as he thought back over the weeks, years, centuries that had led up to that moment, that one night together. “It _has_ all been a bit doom and gloom for, well, six thousand years.”

“Give or take. They’ve had their moments, the last few millennia, eh?”

“Quite.” The angel took a pace back, turned to take in their surroundings. It was one thing watching life unfold through Zira’s eyes but to gaze at the world himself, to turn his own head, it was as if he’d stepped back into that vessel that had served him so well for so many years. He shook his head. The fire. Gone forever. Nothing but ash, just like the bookshop. Was there anything, he wondered, that remained of his old life in this new world? And then he saw it. “Oh, there you are.”

He pulled the sword out from its safe place between the sideboard and the wall, where Crowley’s human counterpart had relegated it after Zira had rescued it from the smoking remains of the shop on the day after the fire. _Needs to go somewhere out of the way, _he’d said, nodding towards Barnaby’s curious gaze. They’d slotted it between the furniture and the wall in the end, buffered it with a towel to keep Barnaby out of bounds. While a bundled up towel might have been an adequate barrier for a dog, it was not quite enough to keep an angel from his ethereal weapon.

“Angel, don’t-” Crowley rolled his eyes, gave the fire alarm above them a shifty glance as Aziraphale swung the sword through the air, emitting a happy little sigh as flames burst to life around the blade. The alarm stayed blinking happily in ten second intervals. Apparently ethereal fire wasn’t within its remit. “Well, if that didn’t wake him up he’s truly out like a light.”

“I didn’t _ask_ it to do that,” Aziraphale insisted, swinging it to and fro, gazing at it as if it was a precious child. “It just knows when it’s in the right hands.”

“Mmm.” Crowley gave it a terse look, strolling over to the coffee table and rifling around in the McDonalds bag until he found one last stray chip.

“Oh, don’t be like that.” Aziraphale leaned the sword against the windowsill, reaching out to tug the window closed before joining Crowley on the sofa. “Are you still bitter it didn’t light up for you?”

The demon rolled his eyes, remembering one particularly embarrassing afternoon when Aziraphale had arrived home to the Love Nest earlier than expected and had found him trying to coax anything, even one little flame out from the sword.

“Are you sulking, Crowley?” Aziraphale reached out to rub his knee, rested his head against the demon’s shoulder. “I always said you’re at your most irresistible when you’re brooding.”

Crowley turned to him, swinging his legs into the angel’s lap as he did his best impression of a demon who was very brooding indeed. Rather a hard thing to accomplish when it was difficult to stop smiling. “Brooding is a demon’s bread and butter.”

Aziraphale clapped his hands together. “While our little buddies are otherwise engaged for the night, what do you want to do first? What have you been dreaming of doing? We can do anything at all. As long as it doesn’t involve danger, miracles, or leaving the flat.”

“Why can’t we leave the flat?” Crowley wrinkled his nose, as the pipe dream of visiting his garden sailed out of the window.

“It wouldn’t do much good for them to wake up and find themselves in the middle of the Ritz, would it?” Aziraphale said, as if it was obvious, which, when Crowley thought about it, he supposed it was.

“The Ritz isn’t open now, angel. Getting a bit rusty on the old opening hours now you can’t swan off for dinner and a show every week?”

“Yes, well, he isn’t much of a theatre fan, is he?”

Spotting the differences between the old world and the new one, it was a game Crowley liked to play when he was getting bored of rattling around his human counterpart’s brain without anything other than his own thoughts for entertainment. He wasn’t sure why Anthony had such a fixation on jogging, given that _he_ had rarely travelled faster than a relaxed saunter in all of his many centuries on Earth. Even more mystifying was why Aziraphale had stowed away in a version of himself that was so inept in the kitchen that toasting two slices of bread without reducing them to cinders was considered a culinary success.

“Forgot to add that in, didn’t you?”

“It was my first creation, Crowley. Mistakes were bound to be made.” Aziraphale bit the words out, burrowing one finger under the ankle of the demon’s jeans to stroke a pattern against his calf.

“It’s a wonderful creation, angel. The most beautiful world I’ve ever seen.”

Aziraphale blushed, shot him a little glance of gratitude. “You’re just saying that.”

“I most certainly am not.” He leaned forward, cupped the angel’s face in his hand. “Look what you did, you made an entire world out of nothing but love. You told me once, Tadfield, remember? You could feel the love there. That’s what this place has, wound into every fibre of its being. Everywhere you go there’s love in this world.”

“All I did was think about you. Us. Everything we could have had, everything we _should_ have had.”

“It’s everything we will have, angel.” Crowley smiled, pressed a kiss to his lips. A kiss that was hope, a promise, that soon everything would be as it should be. “Just one last hurdle. We’ll get there, you’ll think of something.”

“Or you will. My _great plan_ only got us this far. Trapped here.”

“Now now, we’re having fun tonight, aren’t we?” Crowley shook his head, cast out thoughts of the future. There would be time enough to ruminate on how they were going to remedy their situation, of what the future might possibly hold for them, for the human counterparts they’d grown so fond of over the months. First, fun. “I’ve got an idea. A thank you to the little ones for keeping us safe for all this time.”

***

“Did you hear where they wanted it to go?” Crowley held the frame in both hands, looked across at Aziraphale as he leaned it back against the sofa cushions. They stood between the sofa and the coffee table, fingers tapping against their lips in tandem as they thought back to the morning their humans had debated where to hang Luci’s sketch.

“I couldn’t make out much over the sound of my young man’s internal screaming that your, er, fellow asked for his opinion.”

“My _fellow_? That’s Sergeant Snake Hips to you, don’t you know?”

“Oh, of course I know, who do you think helped him come up with it?”

There was something about the notion of his angel, with all of his unfathomable intellect, joining forces with his human counterpart to brainstorm _Sergeant Snake Hips_ into being that left Crowley leaning against Aziraphale shoulder, dissolving into laughter. Nothing, not one single event from the last six months, had cemented the ridiculousness of their situation as strongly as that moment. “Aziraphale, Guardian of the Eastern Gate, Protector of Humanity, Agent Angel Face, I hereby declare you are the most brilliant angel of them all.”

“I thought those were _private_ code names?”

“I'm a demon, I’m allowed to be changeable.” Crowley leaned across, close enough for a quick peck on the lips, then picked up the frame, cradling it in one hand. He traced a finger across the glass, following the lines that had been sketched so effortlessly, felt his breath catch as his chest rose and fell. Such a thing, to be alive. He felt Aziraphale’s hand by his waist, heard the angel murmur something about making tea, that he’d be in the kitchen.

Alone, he sat down, rested his feet against the coffee table, laid the frame against his thighs, eyes following that devotion to the light, sketched in nothing but pencil strokes. They were there, though. The highlights, the shadows. One unable to exist without the other. Light and dark, it was the story of their lives, the four of them. Four angels. In the beginning, anyway. Star-crossed. Forbidden. Two stories. How different their paths had been. He laid his palm against the glass, eyes closed against the light, felt something of them there. A trace.

_Where are you? What happened to you when we fell? I miss you, do you know that? Every day. I never forgot you. I never forgot what we were fighting for. I wish you could have seen this place. You’re happy here. It’s beautiful, this world. You would love it, the light, it’s brighter here. Maybe you know, maybe you can feel it, wherever you are. You’re together, the two of you, as you were always supposed to be. Your better world, your happy ending, you have it here, Lucifer. Somewhere, at least._

“Tea.” Aziraphale appeared by his side, sinking down on the sofa as he gently placed two steaming mugs of tea on the coffee table. He leaned forward, inhaling the rich scent, flowers and the night sky, perfume and patience, caught Crowley’s eye as the scent of rose passed between them. “It felt appropriate.”

A beat of silence, and then the angel spoke again.

“I’m sorry,” Aziraphale said finally, gesturing down to the framed sketch in Crowley’s lap. “If it’s hard to see them here. I didn’t…I didn’t think that it might be difficult for you.”

Crowley pressed his lips together, shaking his head as he reached for Aziraphale’s hand, his fingers gripping the angel’s tightly in his lap. “No, it’s a gift, getting to see them the way they should have been. Thank you for letting me see them, for letting them have this. It should never have ended the way it did. They weren’t supposed to…they shouldn’t be apart. It was like tearing the moon out of the sky. This is the life they should have had, angel, and you gave it to them. You gave them more than heaven ever could have.”

Aziraphale sat there, quietly, as he had learned to do from the only angel who had ever shown him grace, listened to Crowley speak, stroked his hair, pulled him close when his voice grew thick and he trailed off into silence. So much left to say and, yet, nothing that could begin to articulate the tragedy of those two archangels, cursed to live out existence apart. One left to a life of painful compliance, one bound to hell for eternity. There had been no covert meetings for those two eternal lovers, no bookshop haven to retreat to, no coming together to stop armageddon, no six thousand year journey of chasing each other around the globe. There had been only devotion and, then, nothing at all.

“We were the lucky ones,” Aziraphale breathed, the words a realisation as he spoke them. “What a luxury, to have had all that time to waste. I would have brought them both, _really_ brought them here, if I’d known how.”

“I don’t think-” Crowley looked down at the framed sketch, his lip jumping as he bit the inside of his cheek, lost to his thoughts for a moment. “I don’t think you could have reached them both, even if you knew how. Lucifer, you barely knew them, how did you know? The light, the way they move, every piece of them. How did you…”

“I didn’t.” The angel smiled, his eyes bright as he marvelled at the unknown, at whatever wild and wonderful forces were at play beyond even his own imagination. “All I did was think about Raphael, about everything they could have been without fear. If Lucifer is in their heart, perhaps…I don’t know, my love. Two halves of a whole. It’s possible, isn’t it?”

Crowley nodded tightly, a finger hurriedly swiping under his eye as he coughed. He stood up then, tucking the picture under one arm as he pulled Aziraphale along behind him. “Come on, let’s decide where to put this thing before I spend all night crying on you.”

***

“I have no idea what I’m doing.” Aziraphale pressed the frame against the empty stretch of wall at one end of the sofa, held it in place as he craned his head back to see if it looked straight. Near enough. He shrugged, marking the position of each corner on the wall with pencil.

Behind him, Crowley had been sent on a research mission to determine how exactly two celestial beings unable to utilise their miraculous powers might go about mounting a heavy wooden frame to a wall. He had, however, been distracted by the mirror that was hanging up by the bathroom.

“Have you made me younger, angel?” He turned to glare accusingly at Aziraphale, who was busy rifling through a shoebox of assorted DIY paraphernalia they had located at the back of a shelf in the airing cupboard.

“Of course not, my dear. Look at you, why would I change perfection?” Aziraphale looked over his shoulder, met Crowley’s eyes in the mirror as the demon pushed and pulled at his cheeks, scrutinising his reflection.

“I’m sure my forehead is smoother now. Did you airbrush me?”

“I didn’t _airbrush _you, I didn’t change a thing. You look exactly the same. Although, perhaps removing soul-crushing guilt from one’s consciousness is anti-ageing.” Aziraphale rolled his eyes, turned his attention back to trying to find the right fittings with which to hang the picture.

“Should bottle that, you’d make a fortune.” Crowley gave his reflection one more inspection, ran a finger over the clean stretch of skin in front of his ear. It looked bare without the tattoo, a brand he’d grown so used to over the millennia. He moved away from the mirror finally, a small framed photograph of Barnaby stealing his attention. He unhooked it from the wall, smiling down at the picture of Barnaby as a puppy, ears too big for the rest of his face, flopping over under their own weight.

“I wish he could have been here,” Aziraphale murmured, appearing beside him, taking the picture from his hand. “I wish you could have seen him tonight.”

“Me too, angel.” Crowley nodded, glancing across at the empty dog bed.

Aziraphale caught the trepidation in his voice, gave his arm a little shake of reassurance. “He won’t be scared of you, my love. Not here.”

***

“Hold them still,” Aziraphale snapped, sighing as he let the hammer hang limply from one hand as he glared witheringly at Crowley, whose fingers had begun to shake with the effort of holding the two nails perfectly aligned while Aziraphale mustered up the courage to hammer them into the wall.

“I’m _holding_ them still, angel,” Crowley hissed, leaning back so the rest of his body was out of the danger zone. He had wanted to be the one in charge of the hammer but Aziraphale had defeated him with the argument that _he_ was the only one who could be trusted with the responsibility, given that he was the one who was more used to wielding dangerous objects, looking pointedly across to the sword that lay against the windowsill.

The angel raised the hammer, then lowered it again with a wail of frustration. “Hold them more still. Stop moving them around, it’ll end up wonky.”

“I'm _not_ moving them around. Just hammer the bloody things!”

“Fine!” Aziraphale cried, raising the hammer, swinging it through the air and promptly smashing it down against Crowley’s index finger. The demon howled an expletive as he dropped the fixings to the floor and gripped his throbbing finger in the other hand. A moment later he moved to sweep his other hand over the injury but Aziraphale slapped it out of the way, shaking his head violently. “_No_ miracles, what the hell do you think you’re doing?”

“What the hell do you think _you’re_ doing, you bloody idiot?” Crowley rounded on him, brandishing a finger in his face that was flushed an angry red, the nail bright white after the force of the blow. “Excellent job keeping us undetected, angel, marvellous work. Waking up with a finger that’s black and blue, he won’t suspect a thing, will he?”

“Well, you do it then!” Aziraphale slung the hammer onto the sofa, storming across the room as if there was anywhere at all he could go. As it turned out, the size of the flat meant he’d already exhausted his options after a few short paces.

“Honeymoon’s over then.” Crowley rubbed his finger with the other thumb, expression softening as he watched Aziraphale huff, before striding back towards the kitchen as if it might open up into a dimension where DIY wasn’t one of the great mysteries of the universe. “Didn’t take us long, did it?”

Aziraphale stopped in the doorway, turned to look at him with the beginning of a smile on his face that he was doing his very best to bury. It was useless. He crossed the room in a matter of seconds, bringing Crowley’s index finger to his lips and kissing it. “I’m sorry, my love. I should have paid more attention to Noah, he would have been a dab hand at this sort of thing. I promise you, though, there’s nobody else I’d rather hammer.”

“Nobody else I’d rather get hammered by, come to that.”

A shared glance, two sets of eyes flicking unconsciously towards the open bedroom door before they shook the notion away for the time being. The night was, after all, still very young indeed. 

“The human world is so laborious, isn’t it?” Aziraphale mused a moment later, as he gently tapped the first nail into the wall, two inches higher than their original attempt. There was only a little dent in the wall. A lick of paint and it would be fine, they were sure. Besides, it would be covered by the picture anyway.

“Took it for granted, didn’t we? No little annoyances throughout the day. No pain. No physical pain, at least. No need for cooking, cleaning…No wonder they’re so tired all the time.”

“Yes, quite.” Aziraphale nodded, knocking the second nail into the wall as he thought about how close his human counterpart was to breaking point. A few more days without news about his bookshop claim and a meltdown was all but guaranteed, Aziraphale was sure of it. _I’m sorry, little one, _he thought, _if there was anything I could do I swear I would._

“There.” Crowley slotted the frame onto the hook that hung haphazardly from the wall, turning back to Aziraphale with a proud smile on his face. “We did it. Who needs Noah?”

“Do you think they’ll like it?” the angel asked, reaching out to nudge one side of the frame down until it lay straight, only for the picture to pitch to the right as soon as he took his hand away. 

Crowley looked up at the framed sketch, then glanced down and kicked a chunk of fallen plaster under the sofa. “I think they’ll love it, angel. I think they’ll wake up in the morning and marvel at their drunken productivity. Do you know my idiot thinks he’s going for a run in the morning? If he makes it to the fridge without collapsing for a nap on the sofa he’ll call that a workout, I know he will.”

“You sound like you’ve become rather fond of him.” Hearing Crowley speak about his human counterpart with a flush of warmth was an unexpected pleasure, Aziraphale thought to himself, as he settled down on the sofa next to Crowley, the demon’s head in his lap as he swung his long legs over the arm of the sofa. The angel had created the two humans in their own image, had given them their very essence, a seed of themselves planted to grow within the human realm however it wished. It was telling, he reasoned, that his own seed had bloomed into something that still had fear at the core, as if he was destined to life a cautionary life in whichever existence his soul took root.

With his head nestled against Aziraphale’s thighs, one of the angel’s hands resting lazily on his chest, Crowley closed his eyes and smiled at the mention of his human counterpart. It was the first time, he realised, in his exceptionally long lifetime, that he had ever been in the position of being a teacher. He had shaped a mind before, of course, those years ago when they had flown under the radar as godparents and attempted to instil both and peace and wickedness in a young boy who was not, in fact, the antichrist. This, though, this was something different. Here he was free to exist in whichever way he soul yearned to. A chance, finally, to do good, to lead, to help, to leave a mark of goodness on another soul. He wasn’t there to do evil. He wasn’t there to do good, unless he wanted to. Aziraphale had given him the one thing he had never had in heaven or hell: freedom to be nothing other than who he was.

“Is he happy?” Crowley asked, opening his eyes and looking up at Aziraphale. _How many times_, he wondered, _how many times have I looked up at you, my angel? Hell staring up at heaven. And now here we are, equals. At last._

“Disgustingly so. Is Anthony?” Aziraphale lifted a lock of Crowley’s hair from his forehead, stroked it back, then brushed it forward again, as if he couldn’t decide which look he preferred. _You could be anyone, my love, and I would love you just the same but here, like this, you are at your most beautiful. God, how much I’ve missed you._

“His heart actually flutters when Zira walks in the room. Or looks at him. Or just…you know, exists.” He rolled his eyes, tutting with affection. “Does he talk to you? Have you told him anything?”

“Have I told him anything? You mean, have I mentioned he’s sharing his body with an angel searching desperately for a way to get back to his demon after they burned away in the cleansing fire heaven sent to rid the Earth of rebel celestial entities during the rapture? Oh, but, not to worry, my boy, I’m not just an angel, I also created this little planet you call home out of sheer desperation? Your memories, yes, they didn’t _really_ happen. Your bookshop? No, _my_ bookshop, my good chap. How do you think that would go over, Crowley?”

“About as well as a lead balloon, if I had to guess. Still, you’d probably fare better with yours than I would with mine. Do you know he’s started using _logic_ and _reason_ to try and get to the bottom of who I am?”

“Well, those were his first two mistakes then. Logic? In this lifetime? Ha. How far has logic taken him then?” 

Crowley sighed, pinching the bridge of his nose, all too aware that if Anthony was built in his image then Anthony’s idiocy was, somehow, his own. “He thinks I’m his, you know.”

“I’m afraid I don’t follow you, my love.”

The demon twisted, propping himself up on one skinny elbow as he pressed his lips to Aziraphale’s collarbone, working his way up the angel’s neck, lips coming to rest by his ear. “And I thought you would follow me anywhere.”

A forehead pressed to his jaw, a tongue against his neck, how long had it been since they had had time for this? Time to take it slow, to eke it out, to kiss and talk and laugh without the constant shadow of sand slipping through an hourglass? Aziraphale slid a hand up into the demon’s hair, fingers curling around scarlet roots to pull him closer, his other hand tight against his waist. Warm skin under his fingertips, something real, something he could touch, finally. It felt like a dream, it might have been. He had wiled away so many hours, so many _days_ dreaming of nothing but this, the weight of a body heavy against his own, that exquisite pleasure of drowning in desire, hands upon hands, a breath hot against his skin, a voice, _that_ voice murmuring against his skin, begging for more, for one more touch. 

“Crowley.” He stopped, one hand unmoving at the fly of the demon’s jeans. “This isn’t a dream, is it? This has happened to me before. Got rather good at dreaming, you see. Been tricked one too many times of late.”

The demon sighed, climbing off of his lap and flopping back against the sofa, growling in frustration. He reached out a hand and sank five nails into the soft skin of Aziraphale’s inner thigh. The angel jumped, hissing in pain. “There’s your answer. No, this isn’t a bloody dream. Surrounded by idiots, I swear. Give your chap a prod, see if he fancies waking up and having a chat with me. Might be the only decent conversation I get around here. You think I’m a dream, Sergeant Snake Hips thinks I’m his dick…”

“He thinks you’re his what?” Aziraphale raised both eyebrows as he rubbed the heel of his hand against his thigh, wondering if the nail marks would linger until the morning.

“Yeah, you heard me. The Serpent of Eden reduced to naught but a trouser snake. How the mighty have fallen, eh? As if once wasn’t enough.” Crowley looked across, found the angel gazing at him with unbridled love in his eyes. “What?”

“I’ve missed you, my love, that’s all.” Aziraphale smiled, brought a hand up to Crowley’s cheek, stroked a thumb along his jaw. “I was starting to think we’d never get to have this again.”

“What? An evening of you hammering me in every way except the one I asked for? I’m beginning to lose faith all over again.”

“I changed my mind, you’re not your most irresistible when you’re brooding. You are, in fact, your most irresistible when you’re being snippy, when you’re at your most delightfully insufferable. That’s when you’re at your most _you_.”

“Mmm, don’t you have such a way with words?” Crowley wrapped an arm around the angel’s shoulder, leaned over to meet him in a kiss. “So romantic. Tell me more.”

“My demon,” he murmured, swinging one leg over the demon’s thighs and sliding both hands slowly up the smooth swell of his chest as his breathing deepened. He bent his head to punctuate each pause with a kiss. “My sweet, sarcastic demon. You can never stop tempting me, can you? Do you know that if I listened to you, if I took you by the hand and led you into that bedroom right now, if I did what you asked, if there was…_hammering_, as you so charmingly put it, that I would be powerless to do anything else until morning? Again and again until the sun came up.”

“Doesn’t sound like a bad way to spend a night to me.” Crowley reached up, caught the angel’s lip between his teeth, biting down until he heard that groan of desire he’d been waiting for. “It’s been so long, angel.”

“That it has. But first, there’s something else we need to do.”

“What? We’ve done our good deed, a little thank you for letting us out into the wild, what else can there possibly be?”

Aziraphale grinned, as if he’d been waiting for that question all night. “I know exactly what we’re going to do.”

He stood up, grabbing Crowley’s hand and pulling him along towards the open bedroom door. Crowley broke into a grin, perhaps his little temptation had worked its magic after all. _Still got it_, he thought, _even without miracles_. Then Aziraphale pulled him past the bedroom, straight towards the bathroom.

As the reached the bathroom door the angel clicked on the light, looking back over his shoulder and smiling with anticipation. “Baptism by bath bomb, I believe they call it.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Angels/demons/unspecified celestial beings (<- delete as appropriate), happy Sunday. I hope you've all had glorious weekend shenanigans - tell me what you got up to! My weekend involved writing, brunch, fish and chips and...an upcoming trip to the garden centre, where I *will* exercise restraint and *will not* return with eleventy thousand plants.
> 
> Next chapter is coming on Tuesday.
> 
> As always, I'll be lurking imminently in case anyone has any questions about the musings of the celestials in this chapter.
> 
> Thank you for your ongoing support, you delights, and I hope you're enjoying where things are going. All my love <3


	30. Save Tonight

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “I, er, I think we just need to give it time.” Aziraphale attempted to stretch out a leg, apologising profusely when he kicked Crowley violently in the thigh.

**February. Crowley’s Flat, London.**

“He has so _much,_” Crowley lamented, as he pulled open wicker drawer after wicker drawer to reveal an alarming number of bottles and pouches, all making lofty promises of a relaxing soak, muscle repair, 50% more bubbles. “Do you think he uses all of this?” 

The water had been simple enough to get right, it was just a matter on turning on the tap, after all, but when it had come to the various bath time accessories they were left a little stumped.

“You tell me.” Aziraphale crouched down next to him, unscrewing a bottle of pink lustre bubble bath and taking a deep sniff that hastily turned into a sigh as the scent of candyfloss hit him. “You’re the one with the front row seat.”

“He has a habit of singing in the bath,” Crowley explained. “The taps go on, it’s time for me to nap until the show’s over. At least he has half decent music taste.”

“Mmm, yes, it’s all very _loud_.”

“Yes, bebop tends to be.”

“Are you mocking me?”

“The Velvet Underground, angel. I’m never going to let that go. Oh, here we go, jackpot.” The demon stumbled across the goldmine they were looking for and pulled the drawer free from the unit, balancing it on the lid of the toilet so they could rifle through the assortment of bath bombs, carefully wrapped and sealed in individual paper bags.

“Are you sure about this?” Crowley murmured a moment later, looking down at the armful of circular bath bombs that were gathered precariously in front of his chest. “I’m sure one is plenty.”

“If you think our introduction to romantic baths is going to consist of a single bath bomb, well, I don’t think you know me at all.” Aziraphale pulled himself up with a little wriggle of incredulity, then hastily added two more bath bombs to those he already held in his arms. “Ready? On three. One…two…three.”

Not one to ever turn away from chaos, Crowley threw the powdery globes into the bath from as great a height as he could, predicting an almighty splash consisting of every colour under the sun. There was, of course, an almighty splash. There was also, inevitably, a tidal wave of multi-coloured flecks of foam that cascaded up the wall tiles, streaking down the sides of the bath, transforming the room into a candy-scented pastel-coloured Jackson Pollock painting with bonus glitter.

“I’m sure it’ll wipe clean,” Aziraphale said finally, leaning over to turn off the tap before rubbing his hands together in glee.

“I haven’t seen you this excited since you discovered marshmallows.”

Aziraphale grabbed his forearm, giving it a little squeeze as he closed his eyes in reverence. “Oh, I _love_ marshmallows.”

“Right, let’s do this then.” Crowley tugged his t-shirt over his head, tossing it through the open doorway onto the sofa, was halfway through unzipping his jeans when Aziraphale careened past him to grab the LED candles that were stashed on top of the medicine cabinet above the sink. “Watch it, angel. Calm down.”

“I will _not_ calm down. It has to be perfect. Do you know how my little fellow felt when _he_ had a romantic bath prepared for him? That’s how I want you to feel. Go on, in we get.” He clicked the candles on, laid them on either side of the wide rim that ran around the edge of the bath, and knelt down to tug Crowley’s jeans over his calves.

The demon swung one leg over the edge of the bath, sighed as he felt hot water lap against his skin. It _was_ relaxing already, he had to admit, and he only had one leg in the deep purple water. Perhaps Aziraphale was…

“No, no, no!” Aziraphale swatted at his shoulder, hauled him down to the other end of the bath so violently all he could do was try to hop along and keep up. “This is _your_ bath, you don’t go at the tap end.”

Crowley sank down in the water and felt the soft clouds of bubbles dissipate around him as the heady scent of sweet berries filled the air. He could count the number of baths he’d ever had on one hand, had always found the notion of soaking for an hour in his own filth a mystifying form of relaxation that only entities as _inventive_ as humans could dream up. He was, however, able to admit when he was wrong and, in this instance, maybe he was.

Then a small tsunami of water reared up and soaked his chest, his face, the wall behind him and a good stretch of the bathroom floor, as Aziraphale slipped on a streak of bath jelly that hadn’t quite melted and thunked unceremoniously down in the bath.

“Well,” the angel murmured, eyeing the watery carnage his body had wreaked as he adjusted his position to avoid the cold bite of a steel tap against his back. “That wasn’t great for the self-esteem, was it?”

“It’s just displacement, angel.” Crowley leaned forward, stroking a splash of bright blue away from his cheek. He sat back, felt something like sand underneath his thighs. “Is it meant to be gritty?”

“I, er, I think we just need to give it time.” Aziraphale attempted to stretch out a leg, apologising profusely when he kicked Crowley in the thigh. He sighed, dangling one foot over the edge of the bath as he leaned back into the corner, head disappearing into the wall of bubbles, a stream of droplets running off of his heel and adding to the river on the bathroom floor. “Logistics are a bit tricky to work out, aren’t they?”

“It looked bigger before we got in.” Crowley shifted back until he was sitting up, bent one knee and tugged the angel’s leg back into the water, fingers lazily stroking up and down the length of his shin. “Better?”

It turned out that the dimensions of two bodies in the bath had had rather more of an impact on the water level than they’d anticipated, meaning even the smallest motion saw rivulets of water and chunks of undissolved bath bomb slide down the outer edge of the bath. Crowley’s benchmark for a relaxing bath was fairly low but, still, he wasn’t sure that being kicked in the leg every time Aziraphale slid further into the bubbles contributed to quite the mood they had planned on. 

“Is this relaxing yet?” Aziraphale asked, palm braced against the damp wall tiles as he attempted to heave himself back up into a sitting position.

Crowley wiped sweat from his brow, holding his hand out in front of him to inspect it. _Huh, the human body is fascinating._ “I don’t know why Anthony’s so worried about running. He should just do this a few times a week. It’s exhausting.”

“I think it’s supposed to be romantic, bathing together.”

“Mmm, the last time I felt such romance was when you tricked me into eating the shark.”

“Oh, but that _was_ romantic!” Aziraphale protested, reaching out for Crowley’s hand underwater. He laced their fingers together, swinging their hands gently back and forth as he watched ripples dance on top of the indigo-coloured water.

Crowley smacked his tongue against his lips, wrinkling his nose at the memory of the rubbery cube of shark squeezing wetly down his throat, back when he had a throat for shark to squeeze wetly down. “Sometimes I think I can still taste it.”

“Pity we can’t replace what we used before the morning.” Aziraphale scooped up a handful of water, let it run through his fingers, marvelling at the way the shards of glitter caught the light. _What a perfectly wonderful human invention_, he thought. “Do you think they’ll be terribly cross that we stole their bath bombs?”

“Oh, I think they’ll be furious, angel.” Crowley widened his eyes. “They’ll wake up, find bath supplies missing and that’s it, our cover will be blown. What else could it be but an angel and a demon sneaking off for a night time bath?”

The angel gave him a withering look, then flicked his index finger against the water and sent a little spray flying up in Crowley’s direction. The demon looked at him as if his attempt was just _precious_, then kicked one long leg out, creating a splash that covered Aziraphale from the tips of his angelic curls downwards.

“_Thank you_ for that.” He pursed his lips, shaking water out of his hair like a dog caught in the rain. “I have to admit, when I was trying to save us from the rapture I didn’t think my biggest worry would be whether we’d get in trouble for stealing too many Butterbears. I don’t know how they became so…alive. The humans, I mean.”

“Well, angel, you gave them the one thing most creators know to avoid if they don’t want trouble on their hands: too much free will.”

“Well, _Crowley_, you could have mentioned that _before_, couldn’t you?”

The demon laughed, finding the angel’s knee in the purple depths of the water and giving it a squeeze. And then another, higher up, just to remind himself of what he’d been missing. “I’m joking, you sulky little angel. It’s perfect. Everything you did that day. I’m glad you gave them free will. They could have gone anywhere in the world, met anybody at all, but they found each other on day one.” 

“Could have backfired, couldn’t it? If they’d walked past each other without a second glance.” Aziraphale grinned, remembering the pounding in Zira’s chest as he’d watched the drink travel from the bar to Crowley’s table on the night they’d met, the very first night that had set that journey in motion.

“Look at you.” Crowley reached out to stroke a wet finger down the angel’s cheek. “How could he do anything but fall in love with you on the spot?”

Aziraphale turned his head to the side, caught Crowley’s finger with his lips, slid one foot along the long stretch of the demon’s inner thigh. “He did, you know. Zira, I mean. I don’t think he knows that’s what it was but I felt it, like he knew he would be safe with you. Well, with Anthony. I’d know it anywhere, that feeling.”

“What about that fight, eh?” Crowley laughed, leaning his head back against the wall, smiling at the memory of the righteous fury that had pounded through Anthony’s veins as he’d stormed away from the flat, red-blooded and seething. “I’ve always said it, heaven and hell never needed us to interfere, the humans come up with everything on their own.”

“Oh.” Aziraphale nodded passionately, committing to the lie a fraction too late. “Oh, yes, I had absolutely nothing to do with it. Nothing at all. Especially not the book slamming.” 

Crowley narrowed his eyes, pointing one accusatory, if not a little pruned, finger at the angel. “I _knew_ you were behind that. Irritating beyond measure, it had you written all over it.”

Aziraphale beamed back at him.

“All we have to do now is figure out how we’re going to get vessels of our very own and then we can leave these two lovebirds to it. No more interfering, no more abusing their fragile little livers so we can have the romantic bath to end all baths.”

“Yes, it is rather a delicate bridge to cross, isn’t it? Four souls, two bodies.”

“Don’t you have any ideas? You’re the one with the prior experience. All that _tingling_, remember?” Crowley tutted, trying to repress the flare of jealousy that blossomed as he thought back to that day at Tadfield Airbase, of the relief he’d felt at seeing Aziraphale step back into himself.

“Don’t be jealous, dear, it’s unbecoming.” The angel gave him a pointed look, then leaned across to wipe away a smattering of pastel pink stains on the tiles above the bath. He let out a little scream as his back touched the icy cold tap, lurched forward on instinct and kicked Crowley in the shin for the third time in the last half an hour.

Crowley threw his hands up in the air, letting them crash back into the water with a dramatic splash. “That’s it! Turn around, come here.”

He tugged the angel forward by his shoulders, manoeuvring him around with some difficulty that resulted in snorts of laughter from both parties, so Aziraphale could lean back between his legs and rest against his chest.

“Oh, now this is heavenly.” Aziraphale sighed happily, sliding both hands down Crowley’s thighs, elbows braced against his long legs as if they were his own personal armrests.

“Mmm,” the demon agreed, wrapping an arm around the angel’s chest, the other hand reaching down to stroke his inner thigh, touch feather light and teasing. “That’s better.”

“So, this is how the humans do it,” Aziraphale mused, as he rolled his shoulders back against the demon, relishing the feeling of Crowley’s arm tight around him.

“If Satan could see me now.” Crowley smiled, pausing to lavish Aziraphale’s neck with a kiss that left the angel sighing, eyes closing against the blissful feeling of a tongue against his skin. “Well, I don’t expect he’d know who I am, lowly demon and all, but even so, how far we’ve come, my angel.”

He ran a hand through Aziraphale’s hair, smiled to himself at the memory of that simple touch being all they could risk. A finger brushing against his own, a hand pressed to his cheek, an embrace goodbye, a promise of more, soon, someday. And now, at last, _someday_ had arrived. It might have only been a single night but it was enough, a precursor to that paradise they had dreamed into being in those stolen moments when Aziraphale’s resolve had weakened enough for desire to outweigh risk. It was, Crowley knew, worth whatever risk the angel had feared. It always had been. 

“When I fell…” he trailed off, shook his head a little as the angel turned to look at him, to reach a hand back and stroke his cheek. “I thought I would never see the sun again. I thought that was it, forever, the darkness. Look at me. Discovering bath bombs with one of heaven’s holiest angels.”

“I’m not heaven’s any more. Just yours, remember?” Aziraphale kissed him, a sudden flare of passion rising up from the tenderness. “Always yours.”

“Mine.” Crowley leaned close to his ear, whispered the word with all the possessiveness of six thousand years of waiting for permission to say it, to _finally_ say it. “And I’m yours. Devoted to you for eternity. Beyond it, apparently, into the realm of dog walkers and bath bombs.”

_Well_, the demon reasoned, squeezing a dollop of shampoo into his open palm, _we’ve committed to the human world for the night, might as well commit whole-heartedly_. He had grown fond of the routine of human hygiene, having picked up a nose for scented lotions and potions in the stretch of time in the old world when they had enforced a ban on all miracles but one per day. To wash his own hair, to rub a thick lock of it between his fingers in the shower and spike it up like one infernal mohawk was one thing, but to wash somebody else’s, to find his fingers raking against his angel’s scalp, felt like devotion hitherto undiscovered. 

Aziraphale moaned, slowly craning his neck back as he felt Crowley’s fingertips run through his hair, rubbing deep circles against his scalp. “That feels wonderful.”

Crowley bit his lip, swallowing deeply as he tried to steady his breathing. It had become an involuntary response over the years, latching onto any utterance of pleasure that passed the angel’s lips, whether it was caused by the perfect cup of cocoa, or a delightfully airy cake, or a beautiful sunrise. It didn’t matter. Crowley committed them all to memory, would relive each quiet moan in the moments when he had granted himself the luxury of _pretending_, of disappearing into a dream that _he_ was the cause of it, that sound, that groan of ecstasy.

He leaned forward, damp cheek against the angel’s jaw as he nipped at his neck, felt Aziraphale’s chest jump under his palm. “You can’t keep making those noises, angel.”

“And whyever not?” Aziraphale asked, pressing his head back against Crowley’s hand as the demon swept soapy suds back from his forehead, a torrent of foam running down his back.

Crowley tightened his grip on Aziraphale’s chest, thrust his hips against the angel’s back, his voice a throaty whisper of desire. “That’s why not.”

“Well, that doesn't feel much like a problem,” he growled, reaching back between them. Crowley sucked in a breath that softened into a sigh of pleasure as he felt Aziraphale’s fingers wrap slowly, deliberately around him. “Not one I can’t solve, anyway.”

“Angel,” he murmured, pressing his forehead to Aziraphale’s temple as his own hand slipped lower, lower until he heard the angel pant one delicious word that was all the permission he needed.

“_Please_.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Good day, pals! I hope you enjoyed Aziraphale's very first Lush bath...Butterbears aplenty. There are definitely a couple of Lord of Misrules in there too, because what other bath bomb sums Crowley up more perfectly?
> 
> Next chapter is coming on Friday! Part five of the world's longest gig night 😂.
> 
> <3


	31. Icarus

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “What are you doing?” Aziraphale asked airily, should have known after six thousand years that the answer wasn’t likely to make much sense.

**February. Crowley’s Flat, London.**

“What a novel way to get clean.” Aziraphale smiled giddily, brushing a stray star of glitter off of Crowley’s chest.

“And then dirty,” Crowley added with a wink, clinking his wine glass against the angel’s. “And then clean again.”

After an attempt had been made to clean the bathroom, an attempt that consisted of little more than every towel in the airing cupboard being swirled around the floor to soak up the watery slosh of multi-coloured foam, the angel and demon had retired to the sofa to cool down and finish off the half a bottle of red wine they’d found on the sideboard.

“They won’t be happy about this in the morning.” Aziraphale raised his eyebrows, wondering how his human counterpart was going to cope with the impending hangover. He felt a little bit responsible, given that he had been the one tempting him into having two gins in hand all evening. _Well_, he thought, _needs must. It was for the greater good; he’ll understand someday_. It was residue from a lifetime of servitude in heaven, the ability to reframe any dubious decision into something positive. Holy, even.

“Well, we’ll be safely packed away by then.” Crowley sighed, lips pressed together in an expression he’d intended to be a smile. He met Aziraphale’s eyes, curved a hand around the angel’s thigh, warm and flushed pink from the bath. “There’s still time, though. Hours yet.”

Aziraphale nodded, looking down at Crowley’s hand on his leg. Such a small gesture, a touch he’d grown so accustomed to over the months before the rapture, but after that stretch of time apart it felt like the world. To be there, alive, breathing, together. Something like a miracle. When the angel spoke his words were a quiet murmur, said more to his wine glass than anything else. “Beating the system again.”

“What’s that, angel?” Crowley asked, looking back over his shoulder as he swung open the door of the little greenhouse he’d carried over from the sideboard for closer inspection. While he couldn’t use anything miraculous to help the droopy little seedlings have a stronger start at life, he had grown fond of caring for plant life the traditional way, the _human_ way. To help plants flourish, to gently care for them and bring them into being; he relished the connection to his past.

“It’s just occurred to me how many times we’ve beaten the system over the ages.”

How easy it was to forget every soaring danger they had endured, Aziraphale mused, as he watched Crowley press the tip of his finger into the dry soil that housed fledgling basil seedlings, quietly tutting as he padded into the kitchen to retrieve a glass of water to revive them. In the mundane moments, on the nights that consisted of almost-successful DIY and baths and indoor gardening, it was easy to forget what they had run from, what might await them if they were ever discovered. _Do they know we escaped_, the angel wondered, a_re they looking for us or have they decided we’re not worth the trouble, are there bigger fish to fry? Better to leave us alone, surely, they must know that we’ll never stop running, that we’ll never stop fighting to be together. _He exhaled heavily, tongue pressed to the back of his teeth as he chastised himself for the moment of naivety. Too much time away from heaven, that’s what he blamed it on, not that that was a bad thing. Had been a blessing, really. Still, perhaps it had softened him. It was a dangerous mistake to underestimate the lengths Gabriel would go to for what he would undoubtedly spin as justice, as vengeance for a slight against the Almighty.

Crowley returned from the kitchen then, muttering to the plants as he drizzled water into the tray their starter cells stood in. “I bet he doesn’t water you from below, does he? Bet he keeps the door shut all the time as well. You need the wind to rock you, don’t you? He probably thinks he’s keeping you safe. Too safe. It’ll kill you in the end.”

The angel smiled fondly, eyes tracing all the angles and shadows that made up the love of his lifetime. _How many endless hours have I spent thinking about the way the moonlight pours over your cheekbones? How much time have I dedicated to trying to count all the colours in your hair? Your lips, I could dream them into being. I know them more surely than I know my own. Every inch of you, my love, I hold every perfect fragment of you in my heart. Wherever I am, wherever I’ve been, wherever this journey might send us. You and I, together, is the only thing that’s guaranteed. The only thing that matters._

One of the things he loved so fiercely about Crowley was the demon’s innate ability to stir up fun wherever he went. Aziraphale hadn't usually referred to it as _fun_ in the past, preferred to tut and pretend to be very much against whatever shenanigans he had dreamed up but it was the demon’s proclivity for chaos that had seen the angel fall for him, hook, line, and sinker. After all, what was love if not choosing that one soul with which to spent eternity clutching onto as you shook with laughter that only the two of you could make sense of?

As if on cue, a tinny screech echoed around the flat, snapping Aziraphale out of his daydream. He craned his neck to get a good look at Crowley, given that the sound appeared to have emanated from his very depths, choking out a laugh of disbelief when he found the harmonica pressed to the demon’s lips.

“What are you doing?” Aziraphale asked airily, should have known after six thousand years that the answer wasn’t likely to make much sense.

“The best I can do without miracles, angel,” Crowley explained, glancing up at him for a second before he turned his attention back to the greenhouse. He sucked in a lungful of air and blew into the harmonica again, sliding it across his lips to and fro as he serenaded the basil. “It’s good for them, you know? Music, talking, any sort of attention really. They thrive on it.”

“Surprised you’re not threatening them with a pair of pruning shears.” Aziraphale cocked his head to the side, wondering if Crowley's human counterpart had mellowed him over the months.

“These are just babies, they don’t need discipline. It’s only when they’re misbehaving that the pruning shears come out, like-” He stopped himself then, falling silent as he sat back against the sofa cushions, his thoughts flashing back to the urban jungle he had so carefully curated over the years, his pride and joy that would now be nothing more than a series of desiccated leaves, of fallen flowers left to wilt away in the Love Nest. Even Freddie. Even the little palm he called Angel. _I’m sorry. I’m sorry I left you all to die._

“We can start again,” Aziraphale said gently, nudging his arm. “When we get out of here, it’s the first thing we’ll do. We could go to your garden. I hope I did it justice, it’s not as beautiful as yours, of course, but I tried my best. The roses, at least, I know I brought the roses with us. We could take some cuttings, couldn’t we? And when it’s safe you could finish what I started, help it bloom properly.”

It didn’t matter that the roses he had pulled into being that night when he created the garden would never survive indoors, that they needed the sky above them, that their roots needed the depth of the earth to anchor to. What mattered was that Aziraphale had deemed the garden important enough to try to replicate in their new world, the world that would, perhaps, become their eternal home. That one last good deed would never be lost. Even after the Earth ceased to be, his garden would remain, at least.

***

“This is useless,” the angel huffed, slamming the mystifying instructions back into the box and shoving the entire thing into the depths of one of Anthony’s heaving kitchen cupboards. “How is anybody at all supposed to make sense of that…of that _gobbledegook?_”

“I didn’t know it was possible for the word _gobbledegook_ to sound so violent,” Crowley remarked, one leg swinging lazily back and forth as he played a little tune on the harmonica. He’d followed the angel into the kitchen when he’d decreed that food was the next thing on the agenda, all but salivating as he pulled the crepe maker out of the cupboard. He’d known exactly where to find it and had retrieved it with dizzy excitement, something that had left Crowley snorting into his wine glass as he’d hopped up onto the kitchen counter to watch the angel attempt to decode the instructional booklet. _How long has he been waiting to get his hands on that?_

“I _really_ wanted crepes. It was third on my list after you and a bath.”

Aziraphale’s little voice was so full of heartbreak and woe that Crowley was tempted to risk a jog down the street to one of the crepe stands that was inexplicably (or, explicably, given that he was far too familiar with Aziraphale’s lifelong love affair with crepes) open twenty four hours a day. However, no sooner were the words out of Aziraphale’s mouth than he’d busied himself inspecting the contents of Anthony’s fridge, letting out a little squeal of glee as he located a particularly tasty-looking wedge of brie.

“We can’t use their bath bombs _and_ eat all their food.” Crowley leaned forward just in time to catch the angel taking a bite out of the cheese, leaving perfect indentations of teeth in his wake. “Oh, you don’t even want a nice cracker with that? Just going straight in there, are you?”

“Sometimes pure cheese is the only way, Crowley. Mother in heaven above, this is delicious.” The angel grunted out a groan of pleasure, the likes of which Crowley hadn’t heard since their bath earlier that night. He smiled to himself, realising the two sounds would sound identical if he closed his eyes. _Should I be flattered or threatened_, he wondered, _that sex and food elicit the same reaction? Flattered_, he decided, as the angel turned his attention to a slice of cheesecake that the humans had foolishly thought was safe to be left unattended.

While Aziraphale entertained himself by eating the humans out of house and home, pausing every few mouthfuls to sigh blissfully and praise the Almighty for whatever delicious treat he was currently feasting on, Crowley watched him from his perch on the countertop, savouring the half a glass of red wine he was slowly sipping his way through. _He’s got no idea_, the demon mused, _that the Almighty isn’t responsible for any of this. This is his world. He’s the creator here. Has it been done before? Has an angel ever created a world without Her guidance?_

“Pass me the butter, will you?” Aziraphale patted Crowley’s thigh, pointing frantically towards the butter dish with the other hand. Next to him lay two slices of bread that were cut so thickly the word _doorstep_ sprang to mind. “_Please_, Crowley, _the butter_.”

“Calm down, angel, it’s like you haven’t eaten for days.”

“I haven’t eaten for _months_!” the angel hissed, tearing the soft middle out of one of the slices of bread and folding it into his mouth, words becoming doughy and lost as he surrendered to the glorious mouthful of bread.

Crowley dipped his head to take a closer look at his face, wondered if he was imagining it or if the angel’s eyes really had glazed over with the pure elation of being able to taste food properly again. They _could_ taste food when they were shut up inside their human counterparts, at least he could, anyway. Sort of. In the same way you could see the sun on a foggy morning. It was there, the outline of it, a semblance of a shape amidst the clouds. A suggestion, but nothing more. While Crowley could take or leave food, was more concerned with wine than anything else, he knew how much the inability to taste every morsel of every meal would be nothing less than torture for the angel who was known throughout heaven and hell for his all but insatiable love of cuisine.

“What are you doing? That’s not yours.” Aziraphale frowned at the phone Crowley clutched in his hand, reached over to give him a disapproving swat on the arm when the demon announced he just needed to make a quick online purchase. _A tiny thing, really_, he had promised. “He works hard for his money, not for you to swoop in and spend it.”

“It’s an essential, angel, I swear.”

“Just like the harmonica?” The angel eyed the instrument that hung around Crowley’s neck, had begun to grow tired of its metallic twang a long while ago but didn’t have the heart to tell his demon. He seemed so proud of it.

“Oh, that really was an essential.” He blew one tuneless note to reinforce his point.

“No wonder you ended up in hell, it’s where all the musical maestros retire, after all.” Sarcasm dripped from every word the angel spoke, though Crowley chose not to acknowledge it.

The demon held up a finger a moment later, as if an important thought had only just occurred to him. “You created my life here and you went with the musician cliche, really? I never knew you fancied being a groupie, angel.”

Aziraphale shrugged, turned his attention back to the last forkful of cheesecake. “I always thought those hips belonged on stage.”

“I think there’s a lasagne left in the freezer if you’re still hungry.” Crowley swung one foot up onto the worktop, trilled a little tune on the harmonica to punctuate his helpful tip off.

“Oh, it’ll never defrost before they wake up.” Aziraphale sighed, closing his eyes as if the pain of forgoing lasagne was nigh on unfathomable. “Did I spy a croissant in the bread bin? Do you want to share it?”

“You go for it, angel. I’m stuffed. Ate half a pre-rapture ice cream six months ago, if you recall.” He raised his glass, letting the smoky complexity of the wine run over his tongue before he swallowed the last mouthful.

Aziraphale looked across at him, a stray flake of pastry dropping from his lip, judgement in his eyes as his gaze flicked from the empty glass to Crowley’s face. “Oh, aren’t you _restrained_?”

***

How easy it had been to fall in love with the demon sent to destroy him, Aziraphale thought, as he pressed a kiss to Crowley’s hair, wrapped an arm around his shoulders as they curled up on the sofa, backs to the window to block out the view of the moon growing lower in the sky. It had been the easiest thing in the world, to effortlessly decide to spend eternity loving him however he could, to dedicate his lifetime to keeping him safe, to heal him, to give him everything he had lost when he fell.

_How far we’ve come, my love, how much further we have to go. There is nothing I wouldn’t do for you, do you know that? There is nothing I wouldn’t give up, no sacrifice I wouldn’t make._

“I guess we should talk about it.” The demon’s words came out as a lazy drawl, as if all they had to talk about was what film to watch that evening with dinner. It was all relative, each soul’s aptitude to tolerate the dramatic, and Crowley and Aziraphale had seen more than their fair of drama over the millennia. What was the hiccup of needing to acquire two bodies, to escape heaven’s searching gaze, compared to the endless lifetimes of fear they had endured? After staring down Satan’s wrath, Gabriel’s judgement, peering into the endless void of death, the struggles that lay ahead seemed like nothing more than a minor bump in the road.

Aziraphale nodded, pulling his arm away from Crowley and clapping both hands against his thighs as the demon sat up. “Right, yes, what we should probably have been doing this whole night instead of…gallivanting.”

“Oh, I don’t know, angel. I think we need a bit of gallivanting to break up the dread, don’t you? Soak up the joy of not running for our lives for once. Do you know this is the first night in six thousand years we haven’t had to look over our shoulders to see if we’re being watched?” Crowley leaned back against the arm of the sofa, kicked his legs out to rest against Aziraphale’s knees.

“Mmm, yes, becomes the default state of mind in the end, panic, doesn’t it? Still, nothing like the eternal fear of persecution to force you to live in the now.” He had grown so used to it over the years, the mindless hum of anxiety that had undercut every action he had taken, that to be without it was to feel as though he had been unplugged. For now, the biggest danger was whether or not their existence would do anything to counterbalance the happiness their human counterparts had found. It was peaceful, a relief, not to have to run any more, to only have to hide and wait. If they stayed hidden for long enough, if they could evade heaven's gaze until the End Times, perhaps the rest of their problems would take care of themselves. 

“See, angel, you’re getting it. I always said mindfulness was key.”

Aziraphale reached out a hand, smiled at that familiar thrum of excitement in his chest at the feeling of Crowley’s palm sliding to his. Six thousand years, and there wasn’t a single touch that didn’t give him the same thrill it had from the very beginning. “Well, will you _mindfully_ bring your perfect self closer and kiss me?”

***

Watching Zira and Anthony fall in love, Crowley had thought, tentatively and then so urgently, had been like watching a mirror of their own celestial love story. The danger was dulled, the fear mundane: of rejection, of loss, but the love was the same. A story for the ages, as every love was, however small, however miraculous. There was no hierarchy when it came to love, no love greater than or less than. The love of rain against skin was as great as the love between two souls that transcended even death, just as a love borne out of six thousand years of patience was no more precious, no more holy than the love of watching a speck of dust dance in the mid-morning light.

“Maybe we can have a chat with them and work out a system,” Crowley suggested, eyes half-closed as Aziraphale ran his fingers up and down his arm. They had been brainstorming ideas for how to rectify their situation for the past half an hour but a solid plan was eluding them. “We could give them the days and we could have the nights. Loving by the light of the moon; you think we’d be used to it by now.”

“No.” Aziraphale smiled, shaking his head as he looked down, tilting Crowley’s chin up and pausing to kiss him. “We’re going to live, Crowley, exactly the way we deserve. We didn’t come all this way for a half life. We’re going to be free.”

“Listen to you, my sweet creator. Fearless. Brave. Aziraphale the Almighty.”

The angel laughed. _Aziraphale the Almighty_. He turned the phrase over in his mind. It had a certain ring to it, a satisfying evolution of the previous unkind nicknames the celestial realm had bestowed on him. Perhaps, he mused, in time he could come to deserve that nickname as surely as he had earned the others.

“Funny, it took my own creation to teach me the truth about the world.” Aziraphale exhaled a humourless chuckle, looking up at the ceiling and breathing his thoughts aloud to the one person who had always felt like safety, however much danger loving him brought with it. “It’s been like looking at myself from the outside, these last months, seeing all of that _pointless_ fear, that hesitation, locking himself away to ensure nothing bad would ever happen…all it meant was that _nothing_ would ever happen to him. As it turned out we both needed something worth fighting for to coax us into the light. I won’t live in fear again, Crowley, not any more. I saw what it did to us, I saw what it did to him when he inherited it from me. All that loneliness, it could eat you alive. All these thousands of years I’ve walked among them and it’s only after being privileged enough to live _as_ one of them that I know what it means to be human. It’s all…it’s different for us, isn’t it? Perhaps this is what led to us all getting it so wrong; sitting up in heaven, down in hell, thinking that they’re just like us. They’re nothing like us, not really.”

Aziraphale felt his voice rise as he spoke, as the realisation came to him as bold and bright as a crack of lightning. Heaven, hell, they were both so far removed from the reality of watching over a world. Because that’s all they did. _Watch_. They didn’t learn, they didn’t seek to understand their charges, they didn’t want to help them grow and evolve and bloom into everything they could be. They wanted to check off their to-do list, meet deadlines, reduce that beautiful planet and all of its boundless potential to a corporate project that was almost complete. And then what? Onto the next one. There would always be a next one, after all, for whichever of the Almighty’s angels ascended proudly from the ashes of the End Times, ready to chalk up past mistakes to _experience_, to carry forward lessons they had learned from the smoking planet they had once sworn to serve.

_That was where I went so wrong_, he thought to himself, _in heaven’s eyes. I was among them for too long. I cared too much. I committed the crime of becoming invested. I found the joy in sunsets and wine and the autumn breeze, in the smell of rain on parched earth. I lived among them for so long I started to learn from them. Recklessness. Rebellion. I did as they do; I fell in love, I risked it all in the pursuit of happiness._

When Crowley’s voice came a moment later it was soft, filled with gentle reflection that should never have been possible for a being sent from the pits of hell. “Should have been required training for all of us, really, to exist with them for long enough to understand. Heaven and hell might not be so _pious_ if they knew what it meant to have one chance, to get one shot at life. No miracles. No do-overs. No manipulating the world around them to make it work the way they want it to. How could any of us have been expected to guide them through life, for good or evil, without ever knowing what it was to be human, to be so temporary, so fragile?”

It was something that had been playing on the demon’s mind, the fragility of the human body. When he had been in control of his own vessel it hadn’t been a concern, not really. He’d found himself in plenty of scrapes over the years, situations that would have ended a human life there and then, but all it took was a snap of the fingers, a quick dust down and it was as if it had never happened. Now, though, in Anthony’s body, he was all too aware that one misstep was all it would take: stepping out into the road without looking, slipping in the shower and cracking his head against the sink, Barnaby getting under his feet at the top of the stairs. Anything at all, really. And then what would happen? If the heart that powered his hiding place ceased to beat, what would become of him? Would he die too? Or would he step in and take control, perform one last miracle, even if it meant he would be discovered? And if it meant Aziraphale would be discovered too, then what? He would gamble with his own life, of course, he always had. _But you, _he nestled closer to the angel, forehead burrowing against his warm chest, the candy-sweet scent of the bath clinging to his soft skin, _there is nothing I wouldn’t do to keep you safe._

The demon sighed to himself, pulling his thoughts out of the future and back into the present. _Not tonight. Now who needs mindfulness?_ It was one thing to say the words, to preach the benefits of existing only in the absolute now but what would be the cost of following through on that intention, of truly pushing the past and the future away and living only in the present? Would it lead to freedom from past mistakes or was it nothing other than stumbling blindly through a haze of ignorance, of refusing to learn from those six thousand years of experience living in the mortal world?

It was tempting enough to hide away in the present when all that lay behind was guilt and all that lay ahead was uncertainty. It had kept him alive for six thousand years, after all. _Don’t look back, don’t think about what you’ve done, what you’re going to have to do. Keep your head down, stay afloat. Survive, survive, survive, and maybe he’ll be waiting at the end of it. _But now? Now he stood on the precipice of paradise. What did he want to take with him into that endless bliss? Guilt? Shame? Resentment and anger and every other poison he had let shackle him for so long? Was it time, he wondered, to cut himself free from the weight of expectations? _Be an angel, be divine, don’t ask questions. Be a demon, spread evil, destroy whatever you touch. No, no, not like that. Obey, obey, obey._

Crowley smiled to himself. _No. No, not any more. It’s my time now._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Happy Fridayyy, folks! We made it to the end of another working week :D. What are you all up to this weekend? It's supposed to be grey and dreary and rainy for me so...all the candles and blankets and writing seems like a plan, right?
> 
> I hope you're all enjoying Crowley and Aziraphale's Domestic Night of Freedom - they'll be back in their boxes soon...but not quite yet.
> 
> Next chapter is coming on Sunday <3.


	32. All That I Am (All That I Ever Was)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In case you missed it yesterday, the last chapter of the Morocco short story went live and I'd recommend reading it before this chapter for (mild) spoiler purposes: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20528282/chapters/50397215

**February. Crowley’s Flat, London.**

The moon hung low in the sky above London as the first fingers of light gripped the horizon. Dawn was coming.

Aziraphale looked away from the window. “It’s almost morning.”

Crowley stole a glance down at the watch on his wrist, felt a swell in his throat that he swallowed forcefully away. There was still time. “Not yet, angel.”

“I don’t want to say goodbye to you. Not again.” Aziraphale rested his head against his hand, fingers absent-mindedly twisting in his hair, an unconscious attempt to comfort himself. How could the night have passed so quickly? It had seemed like mere moments since they had stood at the window, arms around each other, smiling down at their safe haven, their new world.

“It’s not goodbye, it never-”

“…really is with us. I know, I know.” Aziraphale smiled fondly at the demon, stroking his cheek before he leaned in to kiss him softly. “Six thousand years hasn’t felt like enough time, why in the world would one night be?”

Despite his attempt at optimism, Crowley knew the angel was right. It was almost time for them to say goodbye once more, to slip back into the shadows and let their human counterparts continue with their lives. The selfish part of him wanted to curl his fists around the metaphorical reins tightly enough that the world would have to split itself in two around him before he would let go. One night would never be enough. A lifetime wouldn’t be. A thousand lifetimes and he would still yearn for more.

He looked up at the angel, found him hunched over the coffee table with a pen in one hand and the other steepled across that day’s newspaper. The crossword. Of course. One clue left. Of course. Suddenly, Aziraphale let out a hiss of excitement and turned to him with a grin of wild disbelief on his face as he furiously scribbled the last answer on the page.

“I got it!” he laughed, reaching out to grab Crowley’s knee victoriously. In his other hand he held the newspaper aloft, waving it in delight. “I got the last clue!”

Crowley dipped his fingers into the pocket of his jeans, instinctively reaching for his phone to snap a picture of that moment to hold onto forever. But he couldn’t, of course he couldn’t. It wasn’t his phone. It wasn’t his moment to hold onto, wasn’t his life at all. Still, he had his memories, the one thing that could never be taken away. His angel, happy and free, with all the curiosity and love for the world that he had ever had was all Crowley had ever dreamed of. To be with Aziraphale was to live in a waking dream, to experience such undiluted happiness he almost felt guilty keeping it to himself. But that was, he realised, exactly what he had done.

Aziraphale, forever a principality, had always taken protecting their secret as his sole responsibility, had spent his years on Earth distracted, more focused on evading heaven and hell’s scrutiny than the job he had been sent to do. They had joked untold times over the years about their ineffectiveness at their respective careers, that the only reason the Earth had managed to keep ticking over for so long was because they failed so spectacularly at their jobs. How different might history have been, Crowley wondered, if they had never fallen in love, if Aziraphale had never had anything on his mind other than doing good, than performing holy miracles and blessing humanity with his grace. _It’s because of me_, the demon realised, _that he never got to give all that he is to the world_.

It was as if they had existed inside a bubble, the two of them, shielded by a protective shell so delicate that they couldn’t risk letting anybody get too close, not even those they considered friends. All they had ever trusted was their faith in each other. Crowley thought of his own companions over the years, some of them so beloved he still quietly grieved for them. But he had trusted none of them, not completely, not with the whole truth.

He thought of Anthony’s life, everything that Aziraphale had given him, everything the angel had, subconsciously or otherwise, thought was missing from Crowley’s own existence. Support. People who he loved and trusted. An endless cycle of favours and kind gestures. A family. Was it possible, he wondered, that it had been borne out of the angel’s own unacknowledged desire for something bigger than just the two of them against everything else? Was it time to open themselves up, to reach out a hand and put their faith in something else, in somebody else? Solitude had led them that far but perhaps it was trust that would lead them one step further, to break away from the loneliness of devotion.

“Angel,” he said, shifting closer to Aziraphale, one hand sliding around his back. “I think I know what we need to do, a way we can end this.”

“Oh?” Aziraphale folded the paper neatly in half, eyes trained on the coffee table as he slid the paper across the smooth wood. There was interest in his voice but, more than that, the first feathers of panic.

“There’s nothing we can do here, not like this. Four souls, two bodies, it’s never going to work. We can’t _create_, not without getting caught. But maybe somebody else can do it for us.”

“No, Crowley, it’s me and you. Just us. I don’t trust anybody with you. Sometimes I barely even trust myself.”

“There is somebody we can trust.”

Aziraphale sat back on the sofa, felt Crowley’s arm against his back, reached for his hand and gripped it tight. “We can’t risk it, Crowley. We’d be risking them as well as ourselves. We’re here now, we have to stay here. If we wait long enough, if we can stay hidden…I think we’ll be safe.”

“We don’t know that.”

“_I_ do. The flood…the fire…I know what this is.”

Crowley bit his lip, hoped, for once, to be on the receiving end of one of Aziraphale’s withering eye rolls. “The Big One?”

“The Really Big One. The Final Big One, in fact. It was the bookshop, that was why the Great Tests were bleeding through, I should never have brought it here. So stupid of me. Reckless. The portal, I didn’t think. It was a link. But now it’s gone. Burned away. There are so many millions of worlds, my love, there’s no hope of them finding us now. There isn’t enough time left before the end for them to search every world. The portal was the only link. As long as we stay hidden they’ll never find us, not before they destroy each other. Perhaps Gabriel did us a favour, for once, in his desperation to _speed_ things along.”

“Fire and flood.” Crowley shook his head. “Cancelling each other out the same as they always have. So obsessed with _winning _they can’t even see it. All they’re going to do is fight to the death, and who wins then? Nobody.”

“Except us.” Aziraphale shrugged, gave him a look of hopeful suggestion. “Heaven versus hell, it can only end one way.”

Crowley laughed, nudging the angel with his knee, recalling a time when Aziraphale had been so certain heaven would prevail, that everything was all going to be _rather lovely._ “How times have changed.”

“Mmm, yes. Let’s call it the folly of youth. Hopefully I was wrong. I never thought I would bet on the complete destruction of the celestial armies but…I don’t fancy finding out what Gabriel would do if he ever got his hands on us.”

“_Us_? Don’t drag me into this. I was ready to lay down with my ice cream and let the fire take me, if you remember.”

“Well, my dear, I'm afraid we rather come as a pair now. If I get dragged down you’re coming with me.”

“So you’re telling me the only thing, the _only_ thing in our way is that purple-eyed, silver-shoed, shit-eating-grinned _bastard_?”

“I think so, yes. Michael’s not that bad when they’re on their own.” Aziraphale paused, noticing the murderous glare Crowley was giving him. “Well, I know _you_ don’t have the best relationship with them.”

“The _best_ relationship with them? No, angel, surprisingly, I don’t. They only, oh, I don’t know, _sent me to hell for eternity_.”

“Well, it wasn’t eternity, was it, dear? This doesn’t look very much like hell to me.”

Crowley floundered for a moment, mouth agape as he let out a little cough of bewilderment. He shook his head, shooting one more glare in Aziraphale’s direction before continuing. “Anyway, it’s obvious, isn’t it? What we have to do?”

“Not entirely but I’m sure you’re about to tell me.” Aziraphale leaned forward, eyes gleaming with anticipation as he waited for Crowley to reveal his master plan. He’d had six months of nothing but time to dream it up, after all. Finally, the end was nigh, paradise might actually be within…

“We have to kill Gabriel.”

The angel let out a little cry of frustration, hurling himself back against the cushions with all the dramatic flair he’d learned from his other half.

“What? It’s a good plan!” Crowley threw both hands up in the air. “One, no entity left alive who cares about our dramatic escape. Two, no more smug wanker Gabriel. Sounds like paradise to me.”

“And how, my sweet-natured hellsent soulmate, are we going to kill the Archangel Gabriel? In case you don’t remember we are more than a little bit useless.”

“Oh, I don’t know.” The demon gestured around the room, waved a hand in the direction of Aziraphale’s sword. “Thwarting evil, that’s what you do best. You see a wile, you thwart, right? Just, you know, light up your sword and smite the bugger. Problem solved.”

“Just…tell me your other plan. Your actual plan.” Aziraphale’s words were clipped, every syllable carefully sounded out as he sighed, looking wildly around the room as if he was searching for another pair of eyes with which to meet, to exchange a glance of _good thing he’s pretty, isn’t it?_

“I know you’re not sold on the idea of going back-”

“Well, I’ll stop you right there. We are not going back.”

Crowley hissed impatiently, gently kicking Aziraphale’s thigh with one foot. “I know we can’t go _back_. Why would we need to? This is our home now. But I thought, maybe, if we _pop_ back, in and out in a flash, we could attend to some unfinished business.”

The demon raised one eyebrow suggestively, as if the _unfinished business_ they had to attend to was common knowledge. Aziraphale sighed again. It was not common knowledge. “What unfinished business, Crowley? I’m done with that place. I’m done with heaven, I’m done with the Earth, what’s left of it anyway. To hell with it all. Literally. Everything that’s ever mattered is here.”

“Right, okay, I can see you’re stressed about the idea of popping in and out but…”

“Stressed?” Aziraphale asked incredulously, swallowing hard. Crowley looked down pointedly and the angel followed his gaze to his own lap, where both of his fists were balled so tightly his knuckles were stark white. He released them and flexed his fingers, smiling apologetically. “Sorry, please continue.”

The angel felt fingers creep around his thigh as Crowley shifted closer to him, sliding his other hand up into the angel’s hair, his touch soft and questioning. “What about Raphael? I could see them again, after all of these years. They might want to come with us. Retirement, you know, it might suit them. And the, er, vessel issue? Not a problem for an archangel, is it?”

“Crowley…” Aziraphale trailed off, making the mistake of looking across at the demon, into those eyes that had owned him for so many hundreds of years. “The only time we’ll be safe is after the rapture.”

Crowley nodded, a smile on his face. “It’s perfect, we just have to wait a little bit longer and then…”

The angel shook his head sadly, took Crowley’s hand as he spoke, words gentle. “And then there’ll be nothing left to go back for.”

The demon growled, a throaty sound ripe with frustration. There had to be a way. There had to be something they were missing. “We can’t just _abandon_ them. The humans, Raphael, the Earth. We said we’d protect them. How many times did we stand by and watch the _Great Plan_ unfold and never intervene? And the one time we did, what happened? We saved the world.”

“And in doing so we almost got ourselves killed. Permanently. Why is it always us?” Aziraphale cried suddenly, eyes stormy with anger as he gripped onto Crowley’s hand. “Why should we risk everything trying to save something that doesn’t want to be saved?”

“There’s still something to save. We can’t give up on them, not all of them.”

“No,” the angel breathed, the word coming out as more of a sigh of resignation than anything else. “No, you’re right. But we can’t go back. There might be…maybe we can think of another way. Perhaps we can get a message to them.”

“And failing that, we’ll just pop back, eh?” Crowley grinned at him, chose to ignore the look of horrified disdain on Aziraphale’s face. “Miracle up a couple of bodies, tuck Raphael under one arm, in and out before anyone’s the wiser. Think of it like you nipping across the Channel for crepes.”

“Because that worked out well for me, didn’t it?” The angel rolled his eyes. Centuries later and there he was, back at square one, soul-shatteringly crepe-less once again.

“You _did_ get them in the end.”

“Eventually. But that’s not the point and you… Did you say _tuck Raphael under one arm_? They’re not a newspaper, Crowley, they’re an archangel. Have some respect, for heaven’s sake.”

***

“Last time we were counting down the hours we were waiting to die,” Aziraphale remarked, twisting his head against Crowley’s chest to look up at the demon. “Do you remember?”

“Do I remember?” he asked, brow furrowed as he craned his neck down to kiss Aziraphale lightly on the cheek before he answered his own question. “Not the sort of thing you forget, is it, angel?”

“Can you imagine if…if it had happened, if we’d let the fire take us?”

“We did. _I_ did, for a moment.” Crowley inhaled a deep breath, the air hitching in his throat with the memory.

Aziraphale sat up, taking the demon’s hands in his, voice gentle as he realised, for the first time, that perhaps those fleeting seconds between the rapture and the creation of the new world might have been different for the two of them. “Crowley? What happened to you after the fire? Where did you go?”

_Hell_, the angel wondered silently, _did they send you back to hell for those moments?_

“I-” Crowley cut himself short, sucked in one more shuddering breath, fingers tightening around Aziraphale’s as he stared down at the ground. “I don’t know, angel. I don’t know where it was. It was…it was dark, cold. It was nothing, absolutely nothing. It was just…a void. I couldn’t breathe but I didn’t need to. I felt like I was suffocating, drowning…but my heart still beat. For a second I felt like nobody at all. Then, suddenly, the stars lit up above me, millions of them. It was beautiful, like every single one of them bloomed just to light my way. I thought of you, I thought of home, and then I was here.”

Aziraphale had seen Crowley scared enough times over the years to recognise fear in the demon’s face: that tight clench of his jaw, the thin slash of his lips pressed together, eyes darting around his periphery for any unseen danger. In that moment, though, when he spoke about what he had seen in the seconds when he had hung between the old world and the new one, what Aziraphale saw in his face wasn’t fear. It was a primal terror he had never seen emanate from the demon who had served hell, who had stood in Satan’s presence, who had awaited judgement in heaven.

“Crowley,” he whispered, releasing one of Crowley’s hands so he could cup the demon’s jaw with one hand, tilting his face up until they were eye to eye. “What sort of place was-”

“I don’t know, angel. I’ve been to hell, I’ve wandered through that loneliness but this…this wasn’t like any place I’ve ever known.” Crowley shivered, followed the motion with a shake of his head, replaced that look of dread with a smile. It was done. It was over. He had left that world, hell, that _void_ far behind. It was in the past, like all of those horrors were. “It doesn’t matter what it was, we’re here now. We’re safe. All we have to do is wait.”

Aziraphale smiled fondly, held out a hand and nodded towards the little space between the coffee table and the door. “For old times’ sake?”

Crowley laughed, pulling Anthony’s phone out of his pocket and scrolling through the music library until he stumbled across what he’d been looking for in one of his human counterpart’s many meticulously-crafted playlists. “So, he _does_ listen to me sometimes. Come on, angel. One last dance before the dawn.”

It was a privilege, Aziraphale thought, to find himself wrapped in the arms of his beloved, to be guided around the corner of the room that could have been the most beautiful dance floor, for all the joy it brought him. What a wonder for that dance to be a celebration of everything they had built, a testament to their triumphant escape, after every dance that had come before it had been fuelled by the need to seize the opportunity to dance in each other’s arms while they still could. Time had always been their greatest enemy but now, perhaps, it had become an ally. If they could be just a little more patient they may find themselves with all the time in the world, more than they could ever had dreamed of.

Aziraphale pressed his forehead to Crowley’s chest, one palm against the demon’s heart, the other held in his strong grip. Masterful, the way he could move around a dance floor. Such a little tragedy, the angel thought with a smile, that it took him so long to try it. Still, in this world he would always be a dancer. All of those trifling fears of looking a fool, of not being good enough, those belonged to the old world.

“I love this,” the angel murmured, words soft against the demon’s skin. “I love dancing with you. Such a simple thing.”

“Mean the world, though, don’t they, the simple things?” Crowley lifted the angel’s chin with one finger, pressed a tender kiss to his lips that deepened until their feet forgot to keep moving, until fingers curled around a waistband, a hand gripped the neck of a t-shirt and they pulled each other close, desperate breaths the only other sound beside the song that played on, words of devotion set alight by the melody.

“I would burn for you,” Aziraphale breathed, teeth nipping at Crowley’s earlobe, a shudder of pleasure coursing through the demon, before he kissed him again, deeper, deeper, a kiss with all of the longing of a hundred lifetimes apart held within it. “Hellfire. For a thousand years, if that was the price I had to pay to kiss you again.”

“And I would drown in holy water for millennia to touch you,” the demon murmured, words muffled against Aziraphale’s lips as he gripped the angel’s wrists in one hand, slipped the other hand lower until the angel sucked in a breath. He smiled, slowly, tugging at the skin below Aziraphale’s collarbone with his teeth until the angel cried out in pain. He let go, pulled his head back to find Aziraphale looking at him, eyes narrowed.

“I didn’t say stop.”

Then, for the first time that night, Crowley felt a flicker of something inside him. Deep in the shadows of his brain, the feeling of something beginning to stir. He sighed, pressed his lips to Aziraphale’s, brought his other hand up to rest safely, chastely, on the angel’s waist. “No, but I think _they_ might be starting to wake up.”

A flash of confusion on the angel’s face and then a little nod as he took Crowley’s hand in his. “Better not hurry them along. It was too much to hope, I suppose, twice in one night.”

“That _would_ be beating the system.” The demon smiled, despite the impossibility of ignoring that their night was almost at an end. They began to dance again, as one song bled into another. “One of these days we’ll dance among the stars.”

“The ones you created.”

Crowley laughed. “I doubt I could pick many of them out now.”

“I could. I can find you in everything you ever made. The stars, the trees.”

A sigh then, so deeply filled with yearning that the demon could have been pining for a long-lost love and, in a manner of speaking, he was. “My forests. I miss them; I think about them every day. I want to take you to all of them, angel, every one you haven’t seen. I know it’s not safe to go back but…”

“If we ever do,” Aziraphale said gently, looking up into Crowley’s eyes and finding quiet hope there. “I want you to show me every one of them.”

It was his most precious gift to the world, the trees, the first life. Not the stars. He loved the stars, had dreamed of disappearing into them more times than he could remember, but it was the forests he loved as if they were the very best part of him. The forests were something that were uniquely his, something he had pulled from his own heart, something he had protected for so many long years. “She spoke to me. I never told you that. I was so…lost. I needed Her, a Mother, and there She was. I needed somebody to tell me it was okay, that _I_ was okay, that I wasn’t wrong. It was permission that She gave me, permission to create.”

“Permission to create,” Aziraphale whispered, as a memory he had long since learned to stop burying bloomed in his mind. “And permission to love. Mysterious ways.”

“So they say.”

The angel looked up, found Crowley lost to his own memories as he twirled him in a slow circle.

“You used to ask me what I did when we were apart, when the years turned into decades, where I went.”

“I always thought you were sleeping, trying to forget.”

Crowley smiled sadly, gave a little nod. “I was, angel, but I wasn’t sleeping. Not always. I used to go to the forests. To forget. To ask for forgiveness. To surround myself with the only things that never gave up on me. _Almost_ the only things, I know that now.” He laughed then, squeezed Aziraphale’s hand.

A beat of silence, and then the demon continued. “Hope. Forgiveness. Love. There was everything in those trees. If something so beautiful, something so good could still love me, I knew there was something in me worth saving. They became…it was as if they were a reflection of us, of you, of everything we could never say. You loved me, even if you couldn’t say it. Even though I did evil, even though I _was_ evil, you still loved me. And so did they.

“I still dream of them: the way the light catches in the leaves, the way the air is still. It’s where everything in this life is at its most beautiful. The trees transform everything, even the wind, the sun. The forests are where I learned what it means to love. I can’t wait to walk among them again, angel.”

As Crowley spoke softly of his love for his forests, Aziraphale closed his eyes and prayed the demon wouldn’t hear the catch in his breath, wouldn’t feel the tears on his cheeks. He was still so good, so utterly loving to the core, despite everything. The demon had seen hell’s evils, had survived them, and yet his mind could never comprehend how deep heaven and hell’s malice truly ran. He sweetly believed that heaven would love the forests as much as he did, simply because they were beautiful, because they had been forged with such care.

But they were gone. Those sweeping forests, those beautiful trees. They would be gone, all of them, burned in the fire that hell had unleashed on the Earth, the fire that heaven had done nothing to protect the world from.

The angel opened his mouth to speak the words aloud, closed it again a moment later. No. They would never see the Earth again. He didn’t need to know. Aziraphale looked up at his face, how proud he was as he spoke of everything he had created. It was, the angel knew, the only thing he had ever been proud of, the only thing that was never stripped from him when he fell. _I can’t be the one to take that from him_. He had sworn to always be honest with Crowley but, perhaps, just that once, lying could be its own sort of kindness.

He laid his cheek against Crowley’s heart, felt it beat against his skin as they moved to the music. “There has never been a heart as good as yours.”

“Any shred of goodness in me is because of you, angel. I wanted to be good enough to deserve to love you.” Crowley looked down, found Aziraphale looking up at him, saw their history shining in the angel’s eyes. Six thousand years of evolution, of growing into each other, of becoming who they were always created to be.

And on they danced, hand in hand, by the light of the fading moon, counting down the hours to the last goodbye of all.

***

“I don’t want to say goodbye to you, my love. Can’t we…can’t we stay just a little bit longer?” Aziraphale slid one foot back between Crowley’s shins beneath the sheets, sighed wistfully as he felt the demon’s chest pressed close to his back as they lay together, waiting for the dawn to break and the night to be over.

“This is the last time we’re ever going to have to say goodbye, angel.” Crowley leaned over to kiss the angel’s neck, his shoulder, the tight angle of his shoulder blade, that sensitive spot where wings could flourish in another world. “Next time, it will be our time. Deal?”

“Deal.” Aziraphale nodded his head in the darkness. Not a hope but a promise. “Until then, here we are…the last moments of one more stolen night.”

Stolen nights. It had felt, to both angel and demon, as though every night they’d ever spent together had been something stolen, something secret, something still forbidden even after all of that time.

“Angel?” Crowley whispered, pressing his cheek to Aziraphale’s hair. He heard the tremor of nerves in his own voice, hoped it passed the angel by. “Can we talk about something?”

“Anything, my love.” Aziraphale found his hand in the dark, slid his fingers through the demon’s and brought their clasped hands to his lips, tenderly kissing each of the demon’s knuckles in turn.

Crowley swallowed. It had hung between them for near enough three centuries. _Still_, he reasoned, _tonight is the last night of our old lives, the last stolen night, the last time our love will ever feel forbidden. It’s time to leave that night where it belongs_. “Can we talk about that night, can we talk about what happened in Morocco?”

Aziraphale froze in his arms, back ramrod straight as he looked up, teeth sinking into his lip, a sharp bloom of pain. Penance.

The demon inhaled a sharp breath, held it close for a moment before words he had held so tightly inside himself for so many years came tumbling out. The only sin he had left to confess. “I tried to hate you after that night. I tried so hard to hate you. It was a curse, loving you. It gave me hope for something I thought I would never be worthy of. How could I be? A demon in love with an angel, evil hopelessly yearning for something so _good_. Loving you was a prison. I wanted to see you as heaven’s face, as everything that had ever told me I was wrong.”

In the darkness, Aziraphale bowed his head. They had both tried to heal him of it. And they had both failed.

“But I couldn’t, I could never see you as anything other than love, as my future, as my one reason to live a good life, as good a life as a demon ever could. I told you that I would go to the forests to try and forget. To forget the evil I had done, yes, but also to try and forget you. I wanted to forget every piece of you. The way your eyes met mine in the darkness, the way you would smile when you saw me, just a second of freedom before you remembered who you were, who I was, that we could never be together, not really, not the way we wanted to be. I thought if I could forget the way the touch of your fingertips against my skin made me feel alive, _really_ alive, then perhaps, in time, we might forget each other completely, that we might become just another angel, just another demon, enemies, as we always should have been.

“How could I forget you, though, when you’re part of everything I am? I found your eyes in every flower in every garden I had ever created, I heard your voice in every summer breeze that breathed through the leaves, your hair was in every beam of sunlight that painted the forest floor. I went to the forests to forget you but they were where I remembered you, remembered why loving you was worth waiting a hundred years, a thousand, six thousand, why every day of longing for you was worth it. Loving you was always the reason, angel, even when it felt like the cruellest curse of all.”

“I tortured you more than hell ever did.” Aziraphale bit out the words, barely reached the end of his sentence before the thickness in his throat overcame him and he let that guilt, that crushing torrent of guilt, unravel itself after all of those years of keeping it at bay. When his confession came it was nothing more than a sob, his words muddled as he gripped Crowley’s hand desperately. “I am so sorry, my love, for being too weak to love you the way you deserved, for wasting so much time. There’s nothing I could ever say that would be enough. I failed you every time, too scared to tell you every word that lay in my heart. I thought I was keeping you safe but all I did was lock you in a cage. You were right, loving me was a prison, and I’m the one who put you there. Never again, I swear to you…I will never, I’ll always…”

“Angel,” Crowley whispered, one hand nudging his shoulder back until they were facing each other. He wrapped his arms around the angel’s shoulders, marvelled at how small he felt in his arms, how breakable. Aziraphale had always held himself with such a quiet strength that it was easy to forget it was all an illusion borne out of necessity, out of the determination to survive. He pressed his chin to the angel’s hair, ran a thumb across his cheek to wipe away his tears. “Angel, what I wanted to say…what I'm trying to say, clumsily, is that I understand why you did it. It took me a long time to understand, too long, but I know. Turning me away, it was the kindest thing you ever did. You were keeping me safe. You saved us both. If you’d listened to me we’d have been stamped out centuries ago. You gave us a chance to have a future, to have this.”

The angel pressed a kiss to his lips, one hand braced against his chest, fingers tracing the outline of his collarbones.

“All I ever wanted was to love you, Crowley, I just didn’t know how. I have thought about that night every day since. I never let myself forget it, what I did to you, how long I made you wait for me, how long I left you thinking you weren’t enough. I’m sorry. I’m sorry for being afraid. It might have been the thing that saved us but…” He paused for a moment, allowing himself the unparalleled luxury of kissing the love of his life, unhurried and unafraid, a hand in his hair, holding him close. As they broke apart, he saw himself reflected in the demon’s eyes, saw a spark of bravery that had never been there before. “There’s something I never told you about that night, about what happened after I left.”

“What?” Crowley asked, taking the angel’s face in his hands and kissing a soft path from his jaw to his lips. “What happened that night?”

Aziraphale sniffed, roughly wiped the last tears from his eyes. “I, er, I decided to handle things very maturely and, well, I found myself crying into a wine glass praying to the Almighty to help me. Funniest thing, She actually did. How many prayers have I whispered over the years, and that was the one She answered?”

“She came to you on Earth?”

“I didn’t know it, not at the time. It wasn’t until years later, centuries later, that I understood it. She came to you when you needed Her most, when you needed to become yourself. That’s what She did for me that night, I believe, when She told me not to fear love, that it’s the only thing that can never be wrong. She told me to go to you, my love, that we would always find our way back to each other.”

"We weren't wrong, we never were, not to Her," Crowley breathed, the words nothing more than a soft sigh, brimming over with wonder.

“Said She never could resist a love story.” Aziraphale smiled, remembering the woman with the world in Her eyes, the way She had quietly tugged the truth out of him without him even realising what She was doing. A Mother, truly. “I didn’t realise it then but that was the moment my faith fractured. It was the first time I had ever looked at heaven and Her as two separate entities. She didn’t poison heaven, She left it for us, trusted us to protect it. It was us, all of us, who turned it into what it is now. It used to be a place where we created, where we taught, now it’s…”

He trailed off, shook his head, there was no need for Crowley to know what it had become.

“I came back for you the next day, to tell you that you were right, that I loved you, that I was a coward. But you had already gone. I waited for you but…I was too late. Too slow.”

“Perhaps you were the patient one all along, angel.”

“There was nothing patient about it, trust me.” Aziraphale kissed Crowley’s cheek, laughing against his skin before the sound died and his voice turned serious. "I know you understand why I did it, why we had to wait, but I am sorry, so sorry, that you ever spent a moment feeling like you didn't deserve to be loved. You always did, always. It was me, I was the one who made the mistake by trying to do anything other than love you the way I wanted to. It kept us safe, it led us here, I know, but I will never stop making up for every moment of unhappiness I caused you. At least I'll have eternity to make it right, won't I?"

There was a shift then, a ricochet that spiralled through both of them. The humans were waking up as the night’s final seconds ticked by, the last grains of sand slipping through an hourglass.

“Speaking of patience…” Crowley sighed. There was still so much left to do, left to say. He hugged the angel tighter, cemented every feeling of their bodies pressed together in his memory, as if it was something he could ever forget. “If I can spend eternity even a fraction of this happy, angel, everything that has come before will have been worth it. But now, one last goodbye, one more time.”

“Parting _is_ such sweet sorrow.”

The demon raised an eyebrow. “One of yours?”

“He never was very good at giving credit, was he?” Aziraphale looked over his shoulder, found the dawn light creeping through the window. “It’s time, my love. I will see you so very soon, for eternity, next time, I promise. I love you.”

“I love you, angel.” Crowley kissed him, felt no sadness in his heart, only excitement for what lay ahead, for the future that awaited them. “Always.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Happy Sunday, angels/demons/celestial entities! Alas, the celestials are back in their boxes for the time being, which means...it's time for the humans to face the music, the mess, and their impending hangovers.
> 
> Bit of a bumper crop on the ole playlist front for this chapter. Yes, I am a song repeater... we've got two versions of two of the songs because I couldn't choose between them so... take your pick :D.
> 
> In case anyone was curious the song they dance to is I'll Be (but the Boyce Avenue cover, I think it's a little softer than the original, which fits better), and the two piano instrumentals are there for the last section when they're discussing that 'specific past event'. I don't know why I'm trying to be coy when you'll already have read the chapter by the time you get to this point but... oh well!
> 
> I hope you enjoyed this one, next chapter is coming on Tuesday <3


	33. It Must Be Love

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> It was coming. He could feel it burning the back of his throat. The gin was ready to be reborn.

**February. Crowley’s Flat, London.**

Past Zira had given careful thought to how he was going to help Future Zira through the trying Sunday he knew would be coming after Crowley’s gig. After all, he knew himself well enough to know that he would, if past endeavours were anything to go by, get over his nerves by drinking enough alcohol to leave him with, at best, a light hangover and, at worst, a headache and dry mouth that would leave him sofa-bound for the entire morning.

What Past Zira hadn’t taken into account is that the best-laid plans of angels and men often go awry, so his thoughtful gift to his future self of a glass of water and two paracetamol neatly placed on the bedside table had been promptly ignored by his celestial counterpart. Still, at least he had that deliciously flaky hangover croissant to look forward to.

Zira reared up in bed like Nosferatu rising from the depths of his coffin, one arm flying desperately to his stomach as the other clapped over his mouth, silencing a frantic groan of panic. There was no time to dwell on the sharp flare of pain in his head, the sandpaper rasp in his throat, or the inexplicable ache in his hip; there was only the threatening churn in his stomach that was rising, rather rapidly, up into his gullet.

“_No_,” he whispered, flinging back the duvet and staggering at as fast a pace as he could on unsteady feet into the bathroom.

It was coming. He could feel it burning the back of his throat. The gin was ready to be reborn. He slammed open the bathroom door; he was going to make it, just. As the first mouthful of vomit bulged out his cheeks, Zira squinted into the darkness as he stretched blindly for the rim of the toilet seat. As his fingers made contact with the cool plastic lid and he thrust it upwards, his feet made contact with the mass of bath towels that were sodden with the remnants of Crowley and Aziraphale’s Grand Bath Bomb Adventure. He skidded across the floor, landing on his side with a resounding thump, desperately heaving a mouthful of vomit into the toilet bowl at the last moment.

Cool sweat beaded on his skin and Zira pressed his head against the cool rim of the bath tub, legs messily splayed around either side of the toilet. He felt a drip of sweat run down his bare back just as a second shudder ran through his body and he leaned back over the toilet bowl to hurl another throatful of vomit asunder.

A desperate mew escaped his lips as he wiped a trail of drool from his chin, looking down to inspect the contents of the toilet as a faint bloom of red caught his eye. _Oh god, oh god, it’s finally happened. I knew this day would come. The gin has finally betrayed me. Is it possible to die from a hangover? It is now._

And then the offending speck of colour revealed itself to be nothing more sinister than a barely-digested red M&M and Zira felt himself relax, as much as somebody sitting in a cold puddle of a half-dissolved Shoot for the Stars bath bomb could relax. _I live to gin another day._

“Well, angel, you know how to treat a man to a romantic morning. Nothing like waking up to the sound of you theatrically throwing your guts up. Spectacular.” Crowley’s voice cut through the darkness as he padded into the bathroom, hair sticking up in every conceivable direction, clicking on the light and leaving Zira hissing as the bright artificial light stung his sleepy eyes.

“Don’t look at it!” Zira cried, frantically leaning over the toilet bowl to pound the flush.

“Are you all right? Come here.” Crowley stepped forward to reach out a hand to help Zira up, failed to notice the carnage on the bathroom floor and promptly slipped on a stray streak of water, kicking Zira square in the back as his other foot flailed to keep himself upright.

The force against his back saw Zira spray one final mouthful of vomit into the toilet bowl, the chunks of Aziraphale’s late night taster menu causing a torrent of toilet water to splash back into his unsuspecting face.

“Crowley,” he wailed, hanging his head over the side of the bath and twisting one of the taps on, frantically rinsing his face under the icy flow of water as he pummelled the toilet flush with the other hand. “_The water went on my face!_”

“What are you doing?” Crowley asked, gently lowering the lid of the toilet.

“Decontaminating myself.”

As Zira quietly sobbed about never drinking again, Crowley blinked slowly as he took a pace back, noticing the chaos in the room for the first time. He stared down at the floor in disbelief, picking up a sodden towel that was covered in glitter and unicorn-shaped sequins. A chunk of damp bath bomb fell out of the towel and bounced off of his foot, leaving a little cloud of pink powder in its wake.

“What the _hell_ did we do last night?”

***

Zira lay curled on the sofa, head tucked against Crowley’s hip, one hand cupping his forehead and the other hugging himself. It provided little comfort. Every few moments a low, plaintive bellow would escape his lips as he cursed the juniper temptress of gin to the fiery pits of hell.

“Why do I do this to myself?” he asked nobody in particular, closing his eyes against the cruel, judgemental glare of mid-morning sunlight, bright and bold as not a single cloud hung in the sky. A moment later something occurred to him and he rasped out the words, hand leaving his head to paw at Crowley’s thigh. “Didn’t you say you were going for a run this morning?”

“Hmm? No, no, I’ll go tomorrow, looks like it’s going to rain today,” Crowley murmured absent-mindedly. He was twisted in his seat, looking up at the framed sketch Luci had drawn, which was now mounted haphazardly on the wall. He darted a glance down at the dark bruise at the base of one of his fingernails and nodded as understanding dawned. _Well, that’s what you get for attempting home improvements after tequila._ He cocked his head slowly to each side, tapping one finger against his lips as the other slowly stroked back and forth through Zira’s hair. “It’s a scientific marvel that it looks wonky from whichever angle I look at it from. What possessed us to do DIY under the influence?”

He narrowed his eyes, catching sight of a hairline crack creeping out from behind the frame and sighed, gently propping Zira’s head up on a cushion as he slid out from underneath him and paced closer to the picture. He nervously lifted the frame, dreading what he was going to find, and let out an exhale of frustration as he found an entire chunk of plaster missing from the wall. “There goes my deposit.”

Then he heard a pathetic groan echo up from the sofa and leaned closer to take in the faint strains of Zira begging for sustenance. “Eggs, Crowley. I need eggs. Please feed me.”

“Oh, eggs can’t help us now, angel, we’re too far gone.” Crowley sank down on the sofa, brushed Zira’s hair back from his forehead and pressed a kiss to his clammy cheek. “Besides, we've run out. Mick isn’t dropping any more over until tomorrow. I could go and get some more if-”

“Tea. I have to have tea,” the bookseller whispered, his eyes half-closed against the pain of existing. “And my croissant, Crowley, please. I left one in the bread bin.”

He nodded, giving Zira a shoulder squeeze of solidarity before he stumbled off towards the kitchen in search of food. _Why do I feel so…okay? _he wondered, though the lack of a headache or nausea filled him with dread. _Did I get away with it or…oh god, am I still drunk?_

There was no more time to ruminate on his level of sobriety as he froze in the doorway of the kitchen, jaw dropping open as he called desperately for Zira. “What the… Angel, you need to see this.”

While Zira had intended to spend the rest of the morning, or perhaps the rest of the day, reclined pitifully on the sofa, there was a sense of panicked urgency in Crowley’s voice that he couldn’t ignore. He pulled himself up off of the sofa, at great personal cost, and staggered slowly to join Crowley in the doorway.

What he found was something akin to a crime scene, if the perpetrators had stopped halfway through ransacking the room for a midnight snack. Empty food wrappers were strewn across the worktops, a thick mountain of breadcrumbs teetered on the cutting board, and Crowley’s harmonica was inexplicably hanging from an empty wine bottle. “Did we get robbed last night? What happened?”

“I think…we happened.” Crowley swallowed nervously, wondering if there was any food left in the fridge at all. Whatever happened, he was not going to be the one to tell Zira they had nothing to eat for breakfast, he looked jittery enough as it was.

As if on cue, Zira let out a howl of anguish as he took in the open bread bin, containing only the telltale empty paper bag that had once housed his pre-emptive hangover croissant and now held nothing but empty promises and broken dreams. He dashed unsteadily over to the worktop to grip the bag in his fist, looking up towards the heavens as if he would find justice there. Behind him, Crowley pressed the back of one hand to his lips to disguise a smile that was dangerously close to becoming a laugh. Zira did not take kindly to being mocked at the best of times, particularly not when hungover, hangry, and grieving the bitter loss of pastries.

“What about that cheesecake you saved?” Crowley suggested, hovering behind Zira and laying a hand on his shoulder. “Sugar burst…it might do you good.”

Zira’s eyes lit up as he turned to look at Crowley before flinging open the fridge. There was a beat of silence, then the sight of Zira’s knuckles turning white as he balled his fists at his sides, and then only the sound of a strangled cry emanating from the bookseller’s depths. _“MY CHEESECAKE!”_

_What am I supposed to do? _Crowley asked himself, looking desperately around for any source of carbs that might soothe Zira’s rage. _We’ve eaten…everything. Lasagne! We have one of Tracy’s lasagnes in…the freezer. Shit. McDonald’s it is. What time is it, are they still serving breakfast? Maybe I’ll get some hash browns…_

“I cannot believe this.” The volume of Zira’s voice dropped dramatically then, which was somehow even more worrying. He turned to Crowley, brandishing a wedge of brie that was missing the tip, the only clue as to its whereabouts was one perfectly neat bite mark. “What is this…_bullshit_?”

“Angel!” Crowley cried, spluttering out a laugh of disbelief. It was only the second time in six months he had heard Zira swear; perhaps food and sex were the only two things that ranked highly enough to warrant sullying his usual family-friendly vocabulary. “It’s just cheese, we can buy more.”

“_Thassnotthepoint_!” His words came flying out in a single tornado of anger. “I am _never_ drinking again. I really mean it this time. Who do I think I am? Eating all of my hangover snacks like some sort of…gin-powered devil!”

“Come on, let’s get you back to the sofa…it’s safe there, no empty bakery bags to set you off.” Crowley took his arm and guided him gently back to the living room, depositing two pain killers and a glass of water in his hand, before reappearing from the bedroom a moment later to drape the duvet over his slumped corporation.

“You’re an angel, Crowley,” Zira mumbled, reaching out for Crowley’s hand as he closed his eyes and let sleep take him. “I’ve always said it. You’re an angel.”

***

“_Shit!_” Crowley hissed, dropping the sword and leaping back as it clattered violently to the ground. He shook his hand loosely, breath coming out as a sharp exhale as the searing heat of the sword clung to his skin. _Why the hell did we get this out last night? As if destroying my Lush stash and desecrating the kitchen wasn’t enough._

“What’s wrong, dear?” Zira called, head of angelic curls popping up over the back of the sofa as he clawed his way out of his second nap of the day, duvet falling limply off of his shoulder.

“That _bloody_ sword,” Crowley hissed, turning to glare accusingly at Zira before he wrapped the bottom of his t-shirt in one hand and used it to gingerly pick up the sword and return it to its safe place between the sideboard and the wall. “This is why we don’t leave it against the radiator. It’s metal…conducts heat, y’know?”

Another little glare in Zira’s direction as he contemplated the rising price of his energy bills. No heating unless you’ve got two layers on and you’re still cold, that was the rule, and he had long suspected Zira paid hide nor hair of attention to it. And now, finally, he had proof. He crouched down next to the radiator, poised to switch it off but…he leaned back on his heels, brow furrowing. It was already at zero. Then how did it…

“Why am I such a mediocre drunk?” Zira sighed, brandishing the newspaper in Crowley’s direction as he stabbed at the messily completed crossword. “All I did was eat carbs and finish the crossword.”

“It’s not just you, angel…” Crowley trailed off, pausing in front of the little greenhouse of fledgling herbs on top of the sideboard, replaced at the perfect angle to catch the sunlight. The door had been propped open and a bright yellow post-it note stuck to the top of the frame that read ‘_Water us from below!_’ The words had been written in his own familiar scrawl but…since when had he spent his nights looking up indoor gardening tips? Oh, the harrowing process of ageing. “I think I’ve got you beaten on the boring drunk front.”

The intercom buzzed to life then, a tinny sound that left Zira clutching his head and Crowley growling an expletive as he stalked towards it. While he hadn’t quite sunk to Zira’s depths, his hangover was beginning to kick in and promised to bring with it all the overwhelming exhaustion and existential dread that he had come to expect the morning after a gig. A combination of the adrenaline and alcohol, he was sure. But mostly the adrenaline, of course. The tequila, he was confident, played only a minor role.

“Yes?” he said, mustering up all the good feeling at his disposal to make the word sound as welcoming as possible. After all, it wasn’t Tracy’s fault the two of them were in a state and he didn’t fancy a telling off for not knowing his limits. It wouldn’t be the first time.

“Amazon delivery,” a gruff voice replied. “Flat 33.”

***

“I used to raise hell when I was drunk. I used to be infamous. I’m banned from The Dorchester, did you know that?”

“Oh, Crowley, what did you do?” Zira asked, hand pressed to his heart in shock, eyes wide as he tried to imagine his sweet Crowley rampaging through the hotel’s beautiful lobby, leaving carnage in his wake. “Did you…destroy a hotel room?”

“Well, no. I, er, tried to sneak into the kitchen to get chips. Would have made it too if Sammy hadn’t blown my cover… Anyway, that’s all in the past. Now it’s all…gardening and ordering household safety goods.” He unfurled the non-slip rubber bath mat with a sarcastic flourish, angrily eyeing the discarded Amazon box, as if it was somehow responsible for his late night impulse shopping. “A bath mat, angel. Even my drunk shopping is boring. Why do we need a bath mat, for heaven’s sake?”

“That bath is a bit treacherous,” Zira conceded, tugging his pyjama trousers down a few inches to reveal a freshly bloomed bruise on his hip. “I’m assuming this is from last night.”

“Oh, that could just as easily have been from the bush. Do you remember the bush? Could have been worse, it was yew, at least.”

“Well, I wouldn’t say it was_ just_ me. I rather think we both got a little over-excited.”

Crowley looked at him, really looked at him, found no trace of sarcasm in his sweet blue eyes. He was just looking right back, face impassive. _How is it possible that you have the sharpest mind I’ve ever known, and yet…?_

“Come and lay down with me.” Zira pulled back the duvet, patted the empty stretch of sofa next to him. “How’s your head, anyway?”

Crowley laughed, dropping the bath mat back into its box and settling down on the sofa, stretching his legs out as he turned on his side, Zira pressed against his back like the big spoon. “Haven’t had any complaints.”

The bookseller pressed a kiss to the back of his neck, the memory of golden eyes looking up at him the night before sharp in his brain. He raised an eyebrow. “I’ll say.”

“Thank you for being there last night, for wanting to come and see me.”

Zira smiled, closing his eyes as he wrapped one arm around Crowley’s waist. Perhaps, he reasoned, the hangover to end all hangovers was worth it if spooning on the sofa was how they recovered from it. “I should be thanking you. Not just for inviting me to the show; for everything. Thank you for letting me be part of the family. I really felt like I was part of something last night.”

“You are.” Crowley twisted around, as much as the limited space on the sofa would allow, and leaned in to kiss the bookseller sweetly on the lips. “Of course you are.”

“And I made some of my own friends, finally, didn’t I?” Zira let out a little laugh, still amused by how completely wrong he had been about the two girls who had so readily taken him by the arm and led him to the corner of the club for an impromptu gossip session.

“Yes, and they were…okay with you?”

“They were perfectly lovely, once they’d finished looking me up and down. Apparently I passed whichever test I hadn’t realised I was taking last night. They’re sweet girls, Crowley, were mortified that you thought they’d followed you home one night.”

“You _told_ them I said that?” Crowley hissed, eyebrows disappearing into his hairline.

“Oh, you know, it came up in conversation.” Zira paused, airily waving one hand in the air. “They think you live in Camden, my dear.”

“Well, of _course_. Didn’t you know it’s illegal to be in a band if you don’t live in Camden?”

Zira noticed absolutely none of the sarcasm that was rife in Crowley’s voice, instead losing himself to thought of toasted sourdough bread, pillowy poached eggs and decadently overpriced Bloody Marys. “We’re going to have brunch in a couple of weeks. You can tag along if you’d like.”

“I, er, think I’ll give that one a miss.” Crowley raised one eyebrow, stomach unsettled at the notion of sitting down with both his other half and his _enthusiastic _fans.

“Probably for the best.” Zira nodded sagely, before patting him gently on the forearm. “I expect we're going to spend a lot of time talking about you.”

***

Crowley heaved in a desperate breath, one hand clawing at his chest as he felt a great weight pressing down on him. He cried out in panic, kicking the duvet away and reaching across to shake Zira awake. And then a wet tongue said hello with a lick that ran across the width of his forehead, the pressure on his chest subsided and Crowley opened his eyes to find himself staring up at Barnaby’s curious face.

“What?” Zira gruffed thickly, one hand reaching out for Crowley’s chest but finding its way to Barnaby’s back instead. He unscrewed one tired eye and promptly squeezed it closed again when he caught the dog’s attention and was greeted by a wet nose to the face. “When did you get back, my boy?”

“About thirty seconds ago.” A third voice cut across them, light with amusement, and they turned in unison to find Tracy standing by the front door, Barnaby’s lead in one hand and a knowing smile on her face as she took in the sight of them tangled up on the sofa in a state of almost undress. “Well, haven’t you two lovebirds kicked things up a notch since the last time I saw you together?”

“You could have knocked. What if we’d been…kicking things up a notch?” Crowley raised an eyebrow, shifting Barnaby onto Zira as he clambered off of the sofa and jumped into his jeans before shrugging back into the t-shirt that had been dangling precariously from the arm of the sofa. As Tracy politely averted her eyes, he tossed Zira’s t-shirt to him and the bookseller began a very inelegant attempt to get dressed underneath both the duvet and Barnaby’s crushing weight.

“I did knock. Three times. And I called you. Thought you might have gone out for the day but apparently you’re both a little…worse for wear. You look awful.”

“Right, well, thanks for bringing the hell hound home.” Crowley looked dubiously down at his phone, found two missed calls from Tracy and a text from an hour before explaining she was on her way over with Barnaby. He leaned across to give her a kiss on the cheek, and then nodded towards the kitchen. “Fancy a biscuit? I think we’ve got a few of those left, at least.”

“What happened here?” Tracy asked, craning her neck to take in the mass of food wrappers and crumbs that they had yet to clean up.

“Oh, don’t ask.” Zira rolled his eyes, coaxing Barnaby off of his chest so he could sit up and make space for Tracy on the sofa. “I cheated myself out of a croissant. It’s been quite a day, my good woman.”

***

Perhaps perfectly scrambled eggs and a sensible amount of water was not the only way to cure a hangover, Zira mused. Perhaps making a nest on the sofa and cuddling up with your handsome other half, eternally supportive mother figure and, of course, a very fluffy, warm dog, could be just as effective. It had worked for him that afternoon, at least. His head still felt foggy and his stomach had not yet forgiven him for whatever paces he had put it through while under the influence but he felt giddy with fondness as he sat between Tracy and Crowley with a tin of biscuits open on his lap and Crowley’s hand curled around his thigh under the duvet.

Barnaby was balanced on top of Crowley’s legs and, in turn, Crowley’s laptop was balanced on top of his fuzzy back, as the dog walker diligently typed out the stream of event ideas and potential table displays that the three of them were discussing as their tea break evolved into an impromptu bookshop relaunch brainstorming session. Well, as far as Zira and Crowley were concerned it was impromptu, though Zira noticed Tracy _had_ whipped out her notebook of ideas rather readily.

As Crowley and Tracy debated whether or not a loyalty card scheme could be worth looking into, Zira sat back for a moment and let their conversation wash warmly over him like a comforting bath. Rebuilding his business from the ground up felt like much less of an insurmountable task, he realised, when he opened himself up to the possibility of letting those who cared about him help, rather than shrinking away and insisting he do everything alone. Just because he had proved over the years that he _could_ do everything alone, it didn’t mean he had to commit to solitude for life, and he was growing rather fond of being part of a family.

“Yes! That’s a great idea.” Crowley reached in front of Zira to hold up a hand for Tracy to high five. “Did you hear that, angel? You should have an auction _in_ the shop. You said you’re always having to travel across the country for those, why not hold one yourself? Get some wine in, some nibbles, it’ll be great. Can I bang the thing?”

“It’s called a gavel, dear.” Zira smiled, gazing back at him as if he couldn’t believe somebody could be quite so adorable. “And of course you can, there’s nobody else I’d rather have bang my gavel.”

Crowley beamed back, all sense of faux-propriety lost as he leaned in to kiss the bookseller. Next to them, Tracy chuckled to herself. “Well, I think I was quite right when I said you two would be perfect together. I'm glad you finally got a move on and realised it.”

And then, as smoothly as if they’d rehearsed it, the bookseller and dog walker broke apart to chorus two words in perfect sync. “Me too.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Good evening, my dears! How has your week been so far? Let me know what you've been up to!
> 
> I hope you enjoyed the chapter of post-gig hangovers :). Next posting day is Friday!
> 
> <3


	34. Sharp Dressed Man

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “Tartan’s stylish!” Zira cried, as if the notion of deviating from his tried and tested look was madness.

**** **February. Crowley’s Flat, London.**

“Crowley! Crowley, wake up!”

Zira’s frantic shouting was accompanied by the sound of the bedroom door slamming open as the bookseller darted into the room and all but slung the breakfast tray onto the bed.

Crowley groaned, opening his eyes and blinking a few times to adjust to the bright sunlight that was streaming in through the curtains Zira had just swept open. Outside, the treetops were waving good morning in the light breeze, and the sound of London living and breathing with all its intoxicating vibrancy filtered in through the windows.

“Wake _up_,” Zira whined, shaking his shoulder until he had no choice but to sit up and force his eyes open to prove he was very much awake and ready to face whatever that Monday had in store.

“What’s got you so…enthusiastic?” he asked, heel of his hand rubbing the sleep from one eye as the other stretched up high above his head. He glanced at the clock, nose wrinkling in confusion as he looked from the clock face across to Zira’s beaming smile. “I didn’t think you knew what this time in the morning even looked like. 

“I’m in the money!” Zira singsonged, brandishing his phone in Crowley’s face, wiggling it from side to side with such a flourish that the text on the screen was nothing but a blur.

“Hold still.” Crowley grabbed his wrist, laughing, and held it in place so he could make out the numbers on the screen. No way. He felt weak. The decimal point had to be in the wrong place. “That’s your bank account?”

“Insurance deposit finally came in.” Zira grinned, turning the phone around and gazing at the screen in wonder. “Do you know what this means, Crowley?”

_That Britain’s class gap has never felt wider?_

It was a day he had quietly dreaded, if he was honest, Zira suddenly having everything he needed to forge ahead with life on his own. While his primary emotion was excitement on Zira’s behalf, he knew how desperately the bookseller had been waiting to escape that limbo and restore his beloved bookshop back to its former glory, he couldn’t help but fear the bubble they’d found themselves in was about to burst. There would be no need for him once the money came in, Crowley knew that, Zira could book himself into a hotel, an apartment, anywhere. He could be closer to the shop, would have the money to travel around the country visiting auctions and rebuilding his inventory. He could do anything now, that great freedom of financial security lighting up opportunities like a neon sign. How could sharing his little flat, inconveniently far away from Soho and with damp on the kitchen ceiling he _really_ needed to report to the landlord, compete with everything that money could offer?

Before he had a chance to speak, Zira continued, leaning in close to kiss him quickly on the lips, as if he was too excited to contain himself. “Now we get to spend it. We can rebuild things properly, from the ground up, just like you said we would.”

_We. We. We. _The word echoed around Crowley’s mind, his fear of everything changing giving way to a hopeful swell of warmth.

“I’m really happy for you, angel.” He smiled, a hand reaching out to trace the curve of Zira’s lips as the bookseller broke into another wide grin. “This is the day when it all begins again for you.”

“And this time it’s different, this time I have somebody to share it with.” Zira pressed a kiss to his thumb, smile faltering as the weight of his words sunk in. “I, er, sorry. That was a bit much, wasn’t it? I only meant, well, thank you for helping me get to this point, I’m not sure what I would have done without you. Now, will you _please_ let me pay more rent?”

Crowley gasped out a laugh, found himself shaking his head in disbelief. “You could be reading your auction catalogues in a hotel suite and you’re arguing about paying more rent for half the wardrobe and a bedside table in this place, where all I do is follow you around lint rolling Barnaby’s hair off of your trousers and moaning about the heating?”

“Why would I want to shut myself away on my own when I could be here with you?” He paused to glance at Barnaby, who was hovering hopefully in the doorway in case either of them were inclined to donate a rasher of bacon to a very worthwhile cause. “_Both_ of you. If that’s still okay, I mean, if you want your space back I can make other arrangements.”

The words were as much of a surprise to him as they were to Crowley but Zira realised, with a spark of joy, that he meant them, completely. Where he once would have yearned for the peaceful solitude of a silent hotel room, with the ability to lock himself away from the outside and disappear into his heady world of books, now he thought only of the fun of sharing it, of letting Crowley into that world to explore it with him.

“No, no I don’t want my space back.” Crowley smiled, reached out to squeeze Zira’s hand. “This is your space too, for as long as you need it. 

“You can stop saying that, by the way.”

“What?" 

“_Need_. I’m not here because I _need_ to be, that sounds like I’m here because I don’t have a choice.”

“Well, I don’t want to rub salt into a wound that’s barely healed but you didn’t have much of a choice, angel.”

“Come on, Crowley, you know as well as I do that Tracy was already changing the sheets in their spare room before the first fire engine even arrived at the shop. I called you because you were who I thought of, the person I wanted with me. Who I _wanted_, not who I needed.” Zira finished speaking, saw the telltale look on Crowley’s face, the jump in his throat as he swallowed, nodded, and looked away. Zira sat down next to him on the bed, fingers finding his knee and gripping it to stress his point.

_He means it. I know it seems like more than you can imagine but he means it, every word. Even if you are an idiot._

“I’m sorry.” Crowley sighed, rolling his eyes, laying his hand on top of the bookseller’s. “This is your day, you’ve had amazing news, it’s not the time to delve into my insecurities. I’m happy you want to be here, angel, I want you here too.”

“Look at me.” Zira ran one finger under Crowley’s chin, lifted it up until they were eye to eye. _What happened to you, my love, before we met? What happened to make you think nobody would want to stay unless you had something that they needed? The only thing I want is you._ “I won’t leave you. I know you don’t believe me but…”

Before Zira could finish his promise, a desperate whine cut through their focus. Crowley turned reluctantly away from the bookseller to find Barnaby sitting neatly at the side of the bed, paws perfectly in line as he stared, unblinkingly, at the salty strips of bacon on his master’s plate that had long since begun to cool.

“Fine,” he relented, tossing one strip in Barnaby’s direction. The dog snapped his jaws closed around the treat and swallowed it whole, satisfied for a single second before he sat back down and turned his attention to the plate once again, just in case round two was on the cards. “Angel, if you _do_ ever change your mind, if you do get bored of me, do you fancy taking this bottomless pit with you?”

“Well, Barnaby, did you hear that?” Zira asked incredulously, reaching out to feed him his own last rasher of bacon as he met Crowley’s eyes, smiling. “I think you’d become quite the fixture swanning around the Ritz, what do you reckon?”

***

“Down to the last box,” Zira mused, digging through what remained of the shop’s depleted inventory to find the last two books he needed to package up that day. He might have been down to the final box of stock but, in spectacular timing that felt very much like the stars aligning, not that he would ever believe in something so intangible, it was only a matter of days before he and Crowley would be driving down to that pretty little village called Tadfield in search of brand new books. Well, old books, to be specific. Very old books, fingers crossed.

“Hmm?” Crowley looked up from his laptop, grateful to take a break from the wireframe he was working on for a client. He’d been staring at his screen for far too many hours, judging by the dull ache at the base of his neck.

“I was just thinking to myself what good timing it is that that estate sale is on the horizon.”

“Do you have your eye on anything in particular?” Crowley asked, nodding down to the catalogue Zira had left open on the arm of the sofa, pen balanced in the well where the pages met. He’d spent most of the morning poring over the brochure, circling any particular editions that took his fancy. While his favourite type of acquisition was the sort of elusive gem that only presented itself very rarely, he needed to get some meat on the shelves, which meant replenishing his inventory with the basics, first and foremost.

“Yes, as a matter of fact, I do.” Zira glanced across at the catalogue, reaching up to tap his index finger against a circled listing for a collection of 1930s Just William first editions. “Can’t keep children’s titles on the shelves, you know?”

“I did not know.” Crowley smiled, locking that nugget of information away, just like he did with all the other little tidbits that Zira shared about the nature of bookselling. He found it soothing, listening to his commentary on the market, or a rumination on curating the perfect inventory. “But now I do.”

“Sorry,” Zira murmured, looking up and shaking his head to himself as he spotted Crowley watching him over the edge of his laptop screen. “You’re trying to work. Don’t let me distract you.”

“Of all the distractions this world has to offer, angel, _you_ are my favourite one of all.”

***

“In! _In_, Barnaby, go on. Good boy.” Crowley pulled the kitchen door closed, tried to ignore Barnaby’s crestfallen expression as the living room disappeared from his view, leaving him heartbreakingly alone. _Sorry, boy_, he thought to himself, _but Raphael will be here any minute and you still haven’t mastered the art of not jumping u_p.

_You mean to tell me that you shut that perfect canine angel in the kitchen to keep him away from Raphael?_ The voice came to life in his brain for the second time that day, though this time it didn’t sound quite so comforting. _Raphael, the kindest, most gentle-natured being you could ever be so lucky to_…

_All right, all right, you love Raphael, I know. Calm down. You know as well as I do what Barnaby’s like and Raphael is so…pristine. Too pristine for dogs who have perpetually muddy paws, even if they haven’t walked through mud in days._

The intercom sounded then, and Crowley silently hissed a rushed thought as Zira buzzed Raphael into the flat building. _Back in your box now, little man. _He gave the front of his jeans a quick pat to punctuate his point.

“What are you _doing_?”

Crowley looked up in horror to find Zira looking straight at him, eyes trained to the hand that was hovering by the fly of his jeans.

“N-nothing.” He shrugged airily, looking down and tugging the zip up and down a couple of times as if he was just checking everything was in working order. “Eyes to yourself, angel, we’re about to have company.”

“Right.” Zira gave him one more dubious look, which was mercifully cut short by a knock at the door.

“Oh, what is that smell_?_” Raphael asked, as he swept into the flat and paused in the living room, eyes closed as he inhaled deeply. “It’s _heavenly_.”

He opened his eyes then, gave a knowing nod to the vase of roses that lay on the sideboard, something Zira had surprised Crowley with the afternoon before, when his hangover had finally abated enough to venture into the outside world. _Just a little something to say well done on the show, _he had said, a little shyly, as he pressed the bouquet into Crowley’s hands.

“Beautiful, aren’t they?” Crowley smiled, extending a hand to Raphael.

The man looked down at it, breathed out a laugh, and then pulled him into a hug. “After looking after this one for all these weeks I think a hug is in order.”

“_Excuse_ me.” Zira huffed, giving Raphael a light nudge with his elbow. “I’m a delight, aren’t I?”

“Sure you are, angel.” Crowley raised an eyebrow as he met Raphael’s eyes, the two of them breaking into laughter as Zira began to earnestly reel off all the reasons why he was the perfect house guest.

“…and I always replace the toilet roll the right way round…and it’s my job to make sure we always have bread. And we _always_ have bread, don’t we?”

“Sure. Except for yesterday morning when we actually needed bread and it appeared you’d inhaled the entire loaf in a drunken rampage.”

“Don’t.” Zira shook his head, fist pressed to his lips as he tried to forget the heartbreak. “I’m not ready to talk about that.”

“Well, not that hearing about your list of chores isn’t positively electrifying, but I brought lunch.” Raphael deposited the bag of food on the coffee table and shrugged out of his overcoat, unwinding a sunshine yellow scarf from his neck.

_Ah_, Crowley thought to himself, as he glanced nervously at the kitchen door,_ didn’t think very far ahead, did I?_ There were only two options: one, pretend he had forgotten that cutlery was a thing and dig hand-first into his rice box as if it was how he always ate lunch, or, two, free Barnaby from his kitchen prison and and hope his general zest for life didn’t leave Raphael flat on his back. There was only one viable option: it was time to release the hound.

“Apologies in advance, Raphael, only he can get a bit overexcited when he meets someone new.” Crowley shot the two of them a weak smile as he opened the kitchen door and Barnaby shot out through the gap, careening into the living room and stopping dead when he spotted the intruder.

He lowered his head, eyes fixed on Raphael as his tail curved up and he slowly stalked towards him, the beginnings of a low growl rumbling out from his throat.

“_Barnaby_,” Crowley warned, clicking his fingers to attract the dog’s attention. It worked, for the most part, and Barnaby padded away, giving Raphael one last glare as he returned to Crowley’s side. “Stop it.”

“What was that all about?” Zira asked a moment later, after Crowley had returned victoriously with cutlery and the three of them dug into lunch. On the opposite side of the room Barnaby was curled up on his bed, eyes boring into Raphael’s face. Zira elbowed Raphael with glee, gesturing across at the dog. “Thought he was going to take your hand off.”

“Zira!” Crowley hissed, shooting him a desperate look. That was the moment Zira realised perhaps he shouldn’t be finding the situation so funny, given that it was precisely the third time since they’d met that Crowley had used his real name. “I’m so sorry, it’s not you, i swear. He’s not good at meeting strangers, takes him a little while to warm up to new people.”

“He didn’t take a while to warm up to me, did he? Came toddling over as if we were old pals.” Zira grinned, then leaned over to Crowley as Raphael took another bite of his lunch, eyeing Barnaby nervously. “Raphael’s always been a bit scared of our canine friends.”

“_What_? Why the hell didn’t you mention that before?” Crowley rounded on him, gripping the bookseller’s forearm. He turned to Raphael then, rushed apologies pouring out. “Honestly, I had no idea, I am so sorry. Let me put him away. Come on, boy, up you get.”

“No, no, he’s absolutely fine.” Raphael gave him a weak smile through a mouthful of paprika and chorizo rice. “He’s quite lovely, really. Beautiful dog.”

As they turned back to their respective lunches, the conversation drifted to the spot of good news Zira had received that morning, evolving into chatter about the upcoming trip to Tadfield. While Raphael asked Zira what his plans were for the sale, Crowley narrowed his eyes at the bookseller, promising an adequate punishment when they were next alone. _What the bloody hell does he think he’s doing? I’ll get you back for this, angel, don’t you worry. When you least suspect it I’ll…_

“Well, this is all a bit serendipitous given the morning’s good news but I didn’t just come over to bring you both lunch. I’ve made you an appointment at Franco’s for this afternoon; don’t argue, it’s already prepaid, call it a late Christmas present. Maybe it’ll bring you good luck at the sale. You can’t carry on like this, you’re not you without one of your bow ties.” Raphael raised an eyebrow.

“That’s what I said,” Crowley chimed in excitedly. “I miss the tartan.”

He had no idea who Franco was or what Zira’s afternoon might entail but he was more than ready to feast his eyes on the bookseller’s customary get up. Seeing him lounge around in his own cast offs had been fun while it was lasted but he knew it was time for Zira to get back to his comfort zone. Sartorially, at least.

When they’d finished eating and Raphael had announced it was time to go, Crowley had hung back, peeling open the lid of his laptop and settling down for an afternoon of productivity.

“Come on, little one, we can’t wait all day.” The older man had laid a hand on his shoulder, smiling kindly as he nodded towards the door. “You didn’t think I’d treat this one and leave you out, did you?”

***

Half an hour later the bookseller and dog walker found themselves standing outside a nondescript navy blue door on the corner of Savile Row. The larger tailors brandished Union Jacks from gleaming white flagpoles, elaborate window displays promising the best fit in the city but the taxi had sped past the intimidating shop fronts and dropped them off right outside the understated door that had a small brass plaque mounted above it that simply said: _Franco’s._

Zira jabbed at the doorbell and then took a step back, waiting for the eponymous Franco to let them in. It had been a while since he’d visited, preferring to wear his trusty waistcoats until they literally fell apart at the seams, and he was sure he was in for a scolding. It was usually on the cards where Franco was concerned. 

While they waited for Franco to answer the door, Crowley took the opportunity to revisit that awkward moment when Barnaby had cornered Raphael on the sofa and all of his lofty ambitions of impressing Zira' s friend had gone sailing out of the window. “What the hell were you playing at back there? You never told me Raphael’s scared of dogs.”

“Oh, it was funny, wasn’t it?” Zira shrugged, looking down to straighten the cuff of his shirt.

“No! What if he...what if he goes home and tells Luci I have a savage dog? They might not want to visit again.”

“Don’t pretend Luci wouldn’t have found the whole thing very amusing indeed. You don’t hold a trademark on petty mischief, Crowley."

“It’s different when I do it,” he said sulkily. “There’s an art to it.”

Then the door opened and a very petit man with a very impressive tape measure draped around his neck appeared and cried out in joy at seeing Zira standing there.

“Ah, Mr Fell, we meet again, my hapless bookseller friend! I was so happy when Raphael called me. Not happy, of course, to hear about your shop. Dreadful news. Raphael said there would be two of you...oh yes, there you are, who do we have here? My my, look at _you_, what a sight you are. Legs for eons.”

“Anthony,” Crowley said, extending a hand and wondering why in the world he had introduced himself with his first name instead of his preferred surname. He was still reeling from Zira announcing he was trying his hand at petty mischief. It was dangerous, mostly because he was powerless to forgive the bookseller for anything, as long as he smiled as he caused chaos. “Zira’s friend.”

_Friend? _Zira mouthed, shooting him a questioning look as Franco ushered them inside and up a very narrow, very creaky staircase.

Crowley gave him a shrug of panic. _Leave me alone, I’m nervous. Why is everybody you know so intimidating?_

***

“Now, Franco, I won’t take very long at all and then you can turn your attention to my _friend_.” Zira looked pointedly over his shoulder at Crowley, who was reclined liquidly on a soft leather armchair in the corner of the room, soaking up the scent of chalk and cloth. “Just a run of my usuals, please. You can put anything that isn’t prepaid on this.”

He brandished his debit card with a happy sigh. Oh, just a matter of days and he would be reunited with his trusty waistcoat, his favourite style of shirt, and his signature bow tie. He couldn’t wait. It had been too long.

Franco, the little Italian tailor with a sharply landscaped beard that stopped precisely in line with his jaw, desperately waved a book of fabric samples. “Can I tempt you to anything but tartan? Please. It’s been years, Mr Fell. Can’t we move onto something new? A cravat, maybe? Anything.”

“Tartan’s stylish!” Zira cried, as if the notion of deviating from his tried and tested look was madness.

Not to be beaten at the first hurdle, Franco tried again. “I’ve just had a new delivery of mint green houndstooth that would look _dashing_ on you, why don’t you…?”

“Franco,” Zira said gently, as if they’d had the conversation plenty of times in the past and he was sure all the tailor needed was a reminder to jog his memory. “Just the usuals. You’re fighting a losing battle, I’m afraid.”

Franco pulled a sample waistcoat off of a hangover and passed it to Zira, sighing dejectedly as he disappeared into the back of the shop in search of a sample jacket. “Try this on for size, let’s see if all those crepes have finally caught up with you.”

“Even your tailor knows about you and crepes,” Crowley mused, sauntering across the messy shop to take a closer look at Zira, as he buttoned up the waistcoat and turned in a slow circle for approval.

“Yes,” he said with a frown. “My barber commented on it last week too, asked for my top five recommendations. Perhaps I talk about them more than I think I do.”

***

“Well, of course you’re a musician, _tesoro_, all the beautiful ones are.”

As Franco purred over Crowley, one hand braced against his hip and the other running the tape measure down his inner thigh, Zira watched the scene unfold with a serene smile on his face. Behind his smile, however, there was a storm brewing.

_Why is he touching him with so much...vigour? He has never, in all the years I’ve been coming here, measured my inseam more than once. Should I intervene? I shouldn’t. Should I?_

_Tear him limb from limb._

_Calm yourself, dearest. Who are you, the devil on my shoulder?_

_If he measures that inseam one more time, I might be._

“Something dark for you, I think. I know, I know, it’s a cliche, dressing a glass of tall, dark, and handsome in black but, well, if it’s not broken there’s no need to fix it, is there?”

“Mmm,” Crowley pursed his lips, swallowing nervously as he looked down at the tailor, who was kneeling between his legs, looking up at him. There was only one face he was comfortable looking down at from that position and it belonged to the bookseller sitting on the edge of his seat on the other side of the room.

_I know an angel who’s going to be spitting feathers right now._

_What are you talking about? Zira doesn’t get jealous. I don’t think he knows how._

Crowley looked up then to find Zira glaring across the width of the shop, murderous rage in his eyes as he balled his fists at his sides.

_I told you._

_He is lingering a bit with the old tape measure, isn’t he? How many times does he need to measure it anyway?_

"Now, Mr Fell, why have you not introduced me to your handsome friend before?" Franco tossed the words into the ether without breaking focus from his tape measure, grinning to himself as if he was telling a joke only he understood the punchline of. "I think perhaps we'll move onto the jacket now. I'll just check this one more..."

“What do you think, er, _babe_?” Crowley called, ushering Zira over and gripping tightly onto the sleeve of his shirt as soon as he was within grabbing distance. “A red lining on the jacket, do you reckon?”

“Oh, absolutely, I think it’s a must…honeybun.” Zira looked down at Franco and huffed, batting his hand away from Crowley’s thigh and extending a hand to help him back to eye-level, which was precisely where he belonged. “Yes, yes, very thorough. I think you’ve got it, Franco, that’s _quite_ sufficient. Now, if you’re finished I think my long-legged…_boyfriend_ would like to try on a jacket for size.”

_Mark my words, Franco, you might have the most skilled hands in London where tailoring is concerned but there is only one person in this room with jurisdiction to stare those jeans in the face and his name is Zira Fell, thank you very much, my good man._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> We made it, pals, the weekend is here! Thank you all for bearing with me while I've been incredibly slow to respond to comments; I've still been reading and loving them but I've been a tad under the weather this week so I'm a bit behind - I'll catch up soon though :D. Thank you all for still being invested with this story, I'm so happy to have you all here and I hope you enjoy where things are going.
> 
> The next chapter is coming on Monday and we're off to...Tadfield!
> 
> Have a good weekend and let me know what you have planned, I love hearing what everyone's getting up to. I just got in from an afternoon tea so bountiful I can barely move from my food slump; a very good Friday, all things considered <3


	35. Drive

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Shouting and Zira Fell were not three words that usually went hand in hand.

**February. Somewhere on the M40.**

“Crowley, will you _please_ slow down?” Zira gripped the edge of his seat with one hand, the other white-knuckled around the door handle as Crowley glanced down at the speedometer and tutted, before ignoring Zira completely and turning his attention back to the road.

“I don’t even drive that fast,” he said, after enough time had passed that Zira was sure he hadn’t paid a single jot of mind to him. “Just so you know. It just _feels_ fast, this car.”

“Hmm.” Zira pursed his lips, leaning forward to take a peek at the speedometer, foiled at the last second as Crowley deftly slid his hand further down the rim of the steering wheel to hide it from view. He sighed but decided not to take the matter any further, not when such a glorious day was on the horizon.

The sun was shining brightly in the sky and the air was unseasonably warm, with Zira taking the brave move to venture out for the day without a coat and Crowley donning sunglasses to fight off the glare bouncing back from the road. It was a short enough drive up to the Oxfordshire village of Tadfield and Zira could think of no better way to spend a Saturday than indulging in a road trip, of all things, with a very handsome chauffeur by his side, even if said chauffeur insisted on driving everywhere as if the devil was advancing on them.

Next to him, Crowley was having a less relaxing time behind the wheel, having maintained the same frantic emotional state since that moment four days previously when they had stood in Franco’s atelier and Zira had casually tossed out the world _boyfriend_ as if it wasn’t the most earth-shattering revelation the past six months had held.

_How could he just…say that out of the blue without giving me any warning? What did he even mean by that? He said it just as casually as anything…as if we’ve had the Relationship Talk. We haven’t even had the Commitment Talk or the…_

_Oh, for Somebody’s sake, will you shut up? Only you could fall into a pit of despair because the person you want to commit to you has, in fact, committed to you. At some point you’re going to run out of things to panic about and then what will you do, panic about having nothing to panic about? We’ve been over this. Idiot. He has made his feelings abundantly clear. Idiot. You are living together, cohabiting, shacking up. Idiot. You wake up together every morning. Idiot. He brings you breakfast in bed and tells you he’s not going to leave you. You absolute bloody idiot!_

_I’m just saying, it’s less stressful for everybody involved for a simple discussion to be had to outline the rules of…_

_Don’t start. Don’t talk to me about rules. Listen to me, stop wasting time on second-guessing every single thing that comes out of his mouth. You’ll end up more of a paranoid disaster than you already are. It’s Zira. Look at him. I mean it, look at him._

As obediently as anybody taking direction from their mysterious denim-bound conscience, Crowley broke eye contact with road ahead of them to dart a glance at Zira, who was busying himself with staring intently at every road sign they passed in search of the name _Tadfield_, as if they were off on their holidays.

_Look at that face. Does that face belong to a liar? Do those sweet eyes belong to somebody who would draw you in, chew you up, and spit you out when they get bored? Does that smile belong to somebody who…_

_If you keep listing body parts I’m not going to be able to concentrate on the road, so let’s nip that in the bud, shall we? I get it. He’s not going to lie to me. I know that. I know he wouldn’t. Not intentionally, at least._

_Have you considered the wild possibility of taking everything he says at face value?_

_Do you mean behave in a manner that’s rational and well-adjusted? Steady on, let’s not go crazy._

There was a sigh. A drawn out, yawning, desperate sigh that ended with a growl of frustration.

_Yes, I know, you’re working with a nightmare. I’m beyond hope. Utterly useless. A complete idiot._

Silence, for a moment, for just long enough that Crowley felt a little deflated that even his imaginary phallic guardian angel had grown so tired of his internal whining that it had jumped ship. And then it returned, sounding more tender than it ever had, which wasn’t particularly difficult, given that it usually sounded resentful, impatient, and withering.

_You’re not utterly useless. You are an idiot but you can’t help that. It’s my fault. Proximity to an actual living nightmare starts to have an effect, apparently._

_Oh, I don’t know, mate. I can’t blame you for everything. You’re not a total nightmare; you try your best when the time comes and that’s all anyone can ask of you._

The strangest sensation trembled through Crowley’s body then; an involuntary shudder, as if he’d just heard fingernails scrape down a chalkboard at the exact moment somebody had walked over his grave.

_Would it make a difference if I told you I’m not… _A pause, and then a sigh of resignation. …_Your dick?_

_Don’t worry, little man, this is just between us. Your secret, well, our secret, no, my secret’s safe with me. Wow, what a mouthful, eh?_

_Was that a dick joke? Because I need you to stop before I steer us off the road just to make this end._

While Crowley was reprimanded by his is-it-isn’t-it-phallic-commentator, Zira let out a happy little exhale and clapped one hand on his thigh, the other refusing to budge from the safety of gripping the door handle.

“You know, Crowley, this is going to be a good day. A good, good day. I know it. Sometimes you can just tell, can’t you? The sun is in the sky, we’re escaping the city for a day, I’ve got nothing in my future but books, books, and more books, and we get to do it all together. This might just be the perfect day.”

Zira looked across at him then, eyebrows knitting together as he took in the sweat on his brow, the half-incredulous, half-bemused look on his face. “Crowley, dear, are you all right? You look…clammy.”

“Absolutely fine, angel,” he trilled, voice a few tones higher than usual, as he banished the voice back into the shadows of his mind before it could make any further threats. “What in the world could be wrong? Clammy, you say? Bit hot, isn’t it? Should turn the heating down. Oh, haha, it’s already off, is it? Right, well… Oh, look, I think that sign says Tadfield. That one right there in the distance, can you see it? No? Better look really hard…”

_I just need a day away from the city_, Crowley thought, when Zira had resumed scanning each and every sign they drove past. _I’ll clear my head, shake off my dick brain, and maybe I’ll even get to the bottom of this boyfriend business, ask him if he really meant it or if it was just a show to keep Mr Smooth of Style and Wandering of Hands Franco at bay._

***

“Well, this is very fancy,” Crowley said, squeezing the brakes as the satisfying crunch of tyres coming to a stop against gravel echoed around them. He glanced across at the cars parked in even rows in front of the red brick wall, feeling immediately inadequate as shiny silver badges in the shapes of three-pointed stars, tridents, and big cats gazed back at him.

“Yes,” Zira mused, looking across at the neatly landscaped gardens and the proud arch of brick that let them know that their satellite navigation hadn’t lied, they had made it to Tadfield Manor with time to spare, thanks to Crowley’s flagrant disregard for speed limits. “You should see some of the places I’ve been to. House of horrors springs to mind.”

There was a knock against the passenger window then and Zira jumped, as if the memory of the aforementioned house of horrors had left him on edge. He turned to find a familiar face bent low to peer in the car window, waving animatedly.

“Zira Fell? I thought that was you!” The door swung open and a perfectly rotund middle-aged man tugged Zira out of the car into a hug so violent the bookseller almost choked on his seatbelt. “So sorry to hear about the shop, old bean. Dreadful luck. It _was_ luck, wasn’t it? Not a case of, er, _accidental_ _arson_?”

“Of course it wasn’t,” Zira snapped, as if he’d been both expecting and dreading the accusation. “Anyway, hello, Henry. It’s been quite some time.”

The man leaned in close, giving Zira a wink as he tapped the side of his berry-red nose. It was then that he noticed Crowley and foisted one huge hand into the car in greeting. “Henry Fickling, pleasure to meet you. Fickling Silvers and Antiquities, you can find me up in the Silver Vaults, for my sins.”

“Crowley.” He shook the man’s hand, immediately regretted it as he felt moisture against his palm. Everything about this man screamed _excess_, from the spider veins on each side of his nose, to the Harris tweed jacket that was straining at the single button he had managed to do up. His presence was lavish in a different way to Zira, who quietly enjoyed life’s fineries, and Raphael and Luci, who were as keen to create and share as they were to indulge. Crowley didn’t often dislike people on sight but there was something about the way this man looked through Zira, looked through him too, eyes already scanning the car park behind them to see if anybody more worthwhile was in the vicinity, that left him cold. As Henry did spot somebody more compelling and rumbled off in their direction, tossing vague goodbyes over his shoulder, Crowley leaned across the passenger seat as Zira stretched back in to bid him goodbye.

“Are you sure you don’t want to come in? It might be boring but…”

“I’d just cramp your style, slow you down with all my unending questions. Thought I’d check out what this Tadfield place is all about, maybe find us somewhere for dinner. I’ll meet you later, yeah?”

“Well, have fun. Don’t do anything I wouldn’t do.”

“I wouldn’t dream of it, angel. Good luck.”

Zira smiled, pressed the car door closed and then he was strolling off towards the manor’s entrance, swallowed up by a crowd of other booksellers there with one goal in mind: sniff out the rare gems before the others. Despite the crowd, Crowley’s eyes didn’t leave Zira’s cream-jacketed back until he finally passed under the archway and disappeared from view.

_I should have kissed him goodbye. Still, maybe not when he’s surrounded by business competitors and I’m dressed like I’m in a Foo Fighters cover band. Not one of the good ones, one of the rubbish ones, one called…the Faux Fighters. Oh, that’s pretty good actually. I should text Lily. Somebody needs to hear my pun. _He sighed, looking down at his black t-shirt and black jean combo and wondering if, perhaps, wearing his brand new suit would have been more appropriate.

They’d returned to Franco’s shop the previous day to collect their items, Zira waddling out almost bent in two under the weight of jackets and waistcoats and tailored trousers that Franco had handed over with a laboured sigh, insisting that next time they try something new, just to see. Crowley had folded his slim suit carrier over one arm, floundering when Franco had called him his muse and kissed him twice on both cheeks, before sending him on his way. Back at the flat, he’d already tried the suit on three times, marvelling at the crisp lines and perfect fit. Perhaps all that time spent taking his measurements _had_ come in handy. When he was going to have a reason to wear a bespoke three piece suit, he wasn’t sure, but at least he’d be ready when the opportunity presented itself.

“Tadfield…Tadfield,” he murmured the words aloud, hovering at the junction as he pondered whether a left or a right would take him towards the little village where he had to wile away however many hours it took for Zira to finish his acquisitions.

_Left. Follow the road for a mile. There’s a car park next to the green. I think. At a guess. At least, that’s what it looked like on Google Earth, right? I don’t know, I’ve never been here before. Bye._

“Left it is.” Crowley shrugged, swinging the car back onto the main road and wondering gloomily if there was a lunch spot in Tadfield that would help him shake away the melancholy. “I hope you’re right, little man.”

***

“Now, lunch will be served at twelve thirty in the dining hall and you’ll find tea and coffee in the main hall. I believe the sale is kicking off in just a moment so…”

Zira followed the group as they were led down an airy corridor, beams of light cascading in through artfully carved window facades. He paused, falling a few paces behind the group as he stopped to take in the extravagant shadows painting the wall to his right. _Quite lovely_, he thought, before an unshakable flicker of deep-rooted lust flared up out of absolutely nowhere. Suddenly there was nothing but the vision of Crowley in his mind, hips pressed to his, face hovering so close that a single movement from either of them was all it would have taken for their lips to meet. There was something else nestled next to the desire, something that felt like danger.

“Sir?” The manager of the manor, dressed in a smart black skirt suit with the perpetual expression of somebody who had too much to do in too little time, called out to Zira and flashed him a tight, professional smile. “We’d like to get you all inside before the sale begins but if you do have any questions about the history of the manor I’d be happy to answer them at lunch.”

Zira nodded meekly, trailing along behind the group as they filed obediently down the corridor. He cast one look back at the wall, wondering why he suddenly had an overwhelming urge to hotfoot it down the road to Tadfield, just so he could tell Crowley to finish what he started and pin him up against the wall _properly_ this time.

_Been there, done that_, he thought to himself, bemused. _Must be all the excitement about the books getting to me._

A heavy wooden door swung open ahead of them and Zira found himself standing in a room filled with raucous chatter and cries of _HOW much?_ All around him were tables and shelves of books and hope and endless escapism. He sniffed the familiar smell of well-thumbed pages and sighed happily, straightening his trusty bow tie. It was good to be back.

***

_Don’t do anything I wouldn’t do_. Zira’s words echoed around Crowley’s mind as he sauntered down the uneven pavement, hands buried in his pockets, scanning the two rows of neat shops that ran down Tadfield’s main street. Well, calling it a _main_ street was a bit of a stretch, seeing as the village seemed to have very little else going on. He’d passed a few pubs on his walk up from the car park, in fact, pubs seemed to outweigh anything else that the village had to offer, as was customary for the Great British Village.

His search for something to pass the time would have to consist of ice cream, he decided, as he laid eyes on a perfectly quaint ice cream shop with the thatched roof and pristine white window frames that would have looked absolutely at home on the front of a guidebook. He looked down at the wiry little black and white Jack Russell whose lead was looped around the fence post outside the shop, reached out to stroke his head and smiled to himself as the dog sprang to its feet, nosing his calf with curiosity.

He reached out a hand to pull open the door, found it swinging open to hit him on the shoulder as four children came tumbling out, ice creams in hand, arguing about whether vanilla chocolate or chocolate vanilla was the superior combination of flavours. The last of the group to exit the shop, a tall skinny boy who somehow already had a streak of chocolate ice cream down his t-shirt, paused to murmur an apology to Crowley for hitting him with the door, just as a blob of ice cream dripped from his cone and landed on the toe of Crowley’s shoe.

“Oh, nice one, Brian.” A scruffy-haired boy in a bright blue raincoat turned back from unhooking the Jack Russell’s lead from the fence post, then looked Crowley slowly up and down, a look of confusion rife on his face. “Sorry…but do we know you? You look _really_ familiar.”

That was strange. Not only because a random child insisting they knew you was, in itself, a strange thing to happen, but because Crowley had been thinking the same thing. He couldn’t pinpoint exactly why this ragtag group of friends felt so familiar but he could have sworn he’d seen them before. There was a flash of fire, a sword cutting through the air, backlit with a cloudy sky, and then he was back by the sweet little ice cream shop, four children staring unblinkingly up at him. “No, kid, I don’t think so.”

“Come _on_, Adam.” A girl dressed in stripy tights and red wellington boots rolled her eyes, tugging at the boy’s sleeve as she gave Crowley a cool look.

The boy nodded, then followed his friends to the cluster of bikes that were propped against the fence, his dog curling up obediently in the basket attached to the front of his bike. Crowley smiled to himself, wondering if he would ever have been able to train Barnaby to take rides in a bike basket, even when he was small enough to fit inside one.

Crowley watched as the group cycled off four abreast down the middle of the street, keeping pace as easily as if they weren’t steering one-handed and gripping onto ice creams with the other. Before they turned to cycle out of view, the messy-haired boy stopped and turned back to look at Crowley, opening and closing his mouth as if he wasn’t sure whether or not he should say whatever was on his mind.

Eventually, Crowley broke the silence. “Hey, kid? Where’s good to eat here?”

The boy cupped one hand around his mouth to amplify his reply, as if it was imperative Crowley heed his advice. “The Tuck Shop if you want lunch but The Wolf and Lamb for tea. My dad says you won’t find a better pie anywhere…but make sure you get the chips with it, they’re triple-cooked.”

“Good taste. Thanks.” Crowley laughed, raised a hand in a wave before he disappeared inside the shop in search of ice cream. After skipping breakfast in favour of getting out on the road early enough to beat the traffic, he would have endured a thousand made to measure fittings with Franco in exchange for an overpriced 99. With a flake, of course.

***

By the time Crowley had exhausted everything the village had to offer, which mostly consisted of sampling baked goods in several very cosy eateries, the sky was making rumblings about sunset. He glanced down at his watch, saw it was near enough time for the estate sale to end, and decided to make his way back to Tadfield Manor to collect Zira and his literary purchases.

_Oh. Oh I like that coat_, he thought, eyes settling on the emerald green and navy wool coat the woman walking in front of him was wearing. _Would it be weird if I stopped her to say? Yes, it would, wouldn’t it? Better not. Maybe I could see if Franco would be able to whip me up a jacket in a similar… Oh, what’s got into me? One bespoke suit and I think I’m…the sort of person who has a whole custom wardrobe._

_Hey, it’s book girl!_

No sooner had the voice sprung to life as cheerily as if it was greeting an old acquaintance whose name it had passed over in favour of a descriptive nickname, Crowley heard a dull thump against the ground a few feet ahead of him and squinted down to find a worn hardback book laying in the road. In front of him, the woman strode off towards the car park, fumbling absent-mindedly in the basket she had slung over one arm.

“Hey! Hey, you dropped this.” He bent down to grab the book and broke into a jog, catching up to her just before she swung onto her bike. Breathing embarrassingly laboured, considering he hadn’t jogged further than two hundred feet, Crowley sucked in a lungful of air as he handed her the battered book.

“Oh, thank you, you just saved my life!” Eyes wide as she retrieved the book and laid it gently down inside the basket, she reached out to lay a hand on Crowley’s upper arm, leaning in close and dropping her voice to a conspiratorial whisper. “Family heirloom, they’d disown me if I ever lost it.”

***

Crowley wasn’t sure if infatuation had given him superhuman levels of extra-sensory perception but he could hear Zira’s voice before he’d even entered the manor’s main hall. Then he swung open the door and realised that perhaps he didn’t have mutant ESP, perhaps the reason he could hear Zira so clearly was because he was _shouting._

Shouting and Zira Fell were not three words that usually went hand in hand. At his most furious he might pout and mutter petty insults under his breath but, in Crowley’s experience, when angry the bookseller’s volume tended to go down rather than up.

Crowley spotted him standing next to a table with a defiant look on his face, fingers splayed over the top of a set of books that looked very old and _very_ expensive. Next to him, the man who had introduced himself to them earlier, Henry, was shaking a finger at the young man standing behind the table, who looked like he just wanted the entire ordeal to be over so he could retreat to the pub.

“You stole them from right under my nose, you little thief!” Henry rounded on Zira, arms flying up in frustration.

“I can’t_ believe _you would even imply such a thing.” Zira drew himself up haughtily, glaring back at Henry as if the notion of being called a thief cut right to his core.

“I reserved these books. My slip was _right_ there.”

“Well, I can assure you, Henry, there was nothing there when I came across them. Now, the deal has been done and payment has exchanged hands so, if I may… Ah!" Zira looked up as if he sensed Crowley’s presence, smiling in relief as he hurriedly scooped the cloth-bound books into his arms before Henry could get any closer. “If you’ll excuse me, gentlemen, dinner calls. Marvellous to see you both, pleasure doing business with you.”

“What was that all about?” Crowley whispered, as Zira dashed over to him and pressed a quick kiss to his lips in greeting.

“Just a misunderstanding,” Zira said hurriedly, looping a hand through the crook in Crowley’s arm and tugging him towards the large trunk resting against the wall by the door. “Even so, better get a wiggle on, no time to waste.”

He clicked open the trunk, looking around to make sure Henry wasn’t following in their wake, then squeezed his last acquisitions of the day inside and pressed the latch closed, with a certain degree of difficulty, given how tightly packed it was with books.

“Bountiful harvest.” Crowley raised an eyebrow, nodding down at Zira’s haul.

“Mmm, yes, I can’t wait to show you what I found.” Zira looked up to find Henry eyeing them angrily from the other side of the room and grabbed for Crowley’s hand, leading him through the double doors and out into the peaceful solitude of the corridor. The one where he had had that _strange_ feeling earlier that day.

“Angel,” Crowley said lightly, as he pulled a hand out of Zira’s pocket to find a slip of paper with the words _Fickling Silvers and Antiquities_ written on it clutched between his fingers. “What’s this?”

“Nothing, nothing at all,” Zira hissed, dragging him further down the corridor until they were definitely out of earshot. “Don’t look at me like that; if he wants them that badly he can buy them from me, can’t he? All’s fair in love and literature.”

_Well, that was wildly attractive._

As something sprang to life and his jeans grew that little bit tighter, the voice rose up in Crowley’s mind for the last time that day. _It was, mate. It was._

No sooner had the voice finished murmuring its assent than Crowley found himself thrust backwards, back pressed against the wall of the corridor as Zira’s hips rolled into his and the bookseller leaned in close, fingers twisting in the collar of his jacket.

“I feel so alive. Is this how you feel when you finish a gig?” Zira purred, as they stood nose to nose for a heartbeat before he leaned in to kiss Crowley, one hand pressing his wrist against the wall as the other tightened its grip on his shirt collar.

_Yes. Probably. As soon as I play the last chord I can’t wait to get you home and tear off whatever you’re wearing so… _Crowley’s thoughts trailed off as he closed his eyes and surrendered to the feeling of the bookseller’s lips on his, the sweetest pleasure after what felt like far too much time apart. He felt Zira’s hand fall away from his collar, snake its way down the front of his t-shirt until it came to rest against his belt, two fingers looped inside the waistband of his jeans. They broke apart for a moment, Crowley moaning into Zira’s mouth as he felt the bookseller’s fingers tug his belt undone, and…then suddenly there was the sound of high heels clicking towards them and they were no longer alone.

“Excuse me, gentlemen. Sorry to break up an intimate moment but what the _hell_ do you think you’re doing in my corridor?”

“So sorry.” Zira withdrew his hand from Crowley’s jeans, offered the manager an angelic smile of apology. It seemed to do the trick, as her pursed lips gave way to a barely concealed smile and she turned on her heel to stride back up the corridor, not before giving them one final knowing look.

Crowley laughed against Zira’s neck, forehead pressed to his cheek as the sudden bloom of embarrassment gave way to amusement at being reprimanded as if they were teenagers caught in the act by an angry parent. “Sorry! Booksellers, eh, can’t be tamed, can they?”

They stood in silence until the echoing sound of footsteps disappeared and Zira leaned in for one last, lingering kiss. Then he licked his lips and smiled as he stepped back and relaxed his grip on Crowley’s wrist. “Oh, you taste lovely, what is that?”

“Might be ice cream. Could be apple pie. Possibly blackberry crumble.” Crowley shrugged, reeling off almost all of the sweet treats that had passed his lips that afternoon. He was sure he was forgetting something between the apple pie and the crumble but everything had become a bit of a blur on account of the intense sugar rush.

“Well, you’ve been busy in my absence, haven’t you? I want to hear all about your dessert adventures.”

“I found us a pub for dinner. Comes highly recommended by the locals.” Crowley slung an arm around Zira’s neck, pressing a light kiss to the top of his head as the two of them padded down the corridor, Zira wheeling behind him the first titles that would grace the shelves of the brand new Z. Fell and Co. when it was finally ready to be reborn from the ashes of its past life.

***

“I have it on good authority we have to get pies and we have to get chips; apparently you won’t find a better pie anywhere.” Crowley slouched back in his seat, long legs crossed at the ankle under the table, one foot leaning against the toe of Zira’s shoe.

The Wolf and Lamb conjured up the feeling of warm cosiness that a hundred gastro pubs in London had paid branding managers six figures to try and create, though where they failed, this little country pub excelled. Every decorative pattern clashed, from the garish moss green and cream patterned wallpaper on the feature wall, to the green and red tartan throws covering the worn leather bench seating, all the way down to the stone facades on either side of the fireplace that may well have stood there since the days when the fire provided the only source of light in the room. Spotlights were set into the rectangles of ceiling between the criss-cross wooden beams that ran from one side of the pub to the other, and shelves of books, board games, and bric-a-brac were set into the recesses on either side of the stone walls. The whole effect made the pub feel like a timeless secret, as if they might get so comfortable on those soft leather seats that they could lose a day, or even a year, without realising any time had passed at all. There was even an older gentlemen in a flat cap propping up the bar with a tired greyhound reclined by his feet, for crying out loud. The entire village had a similar feel, Crowley thought, as if such a slice of simple perfection shouldn’t have been able to exist.

“Well, pie and chips it is then.” Zira smiled, taking Crowley’s menu from his outstretched hand and sliding his seat back with a low screech against the floorboards. “Pint?”

“Half, thanks,” Crowley said, patting the pocket of his jeans, where the car keys jangled a reminder of responsibility.

He watched Zira amble up to the bar and smiled to himself, wondering if the bookseller would have had the confidence to even do that when they’d first met. Of course, he _had_ had the confidence to settle himself at the bar, peruse the clientele and send Crowley a drink when he caught his eye, but he’d insisted that was a lone moment of madness. Since then, Zira had told him, he’d found himself stepping outside of his comfort zone day after day, pushing away the carefully drawn boundaries that had kept him safe and sound and _bored_ for his entire life. _I hope I played a little part in that_, Crowley thought, watching as Zira chatted with the barman and pointed to a turquoise bottle of gin with gold embellishments that was mounted behind the bar. _I hope his life is better today than it was six months ago._

He seemed happier, seemed more comfortable in himself, more at peace with who he was. Crowley thought back to how terrified he had used to look whenever they did, well, anything at all, whether that was bumping into each other at godawful speed dating nights or saying goodbye on the steps of the shop. There had been so many moments when it had seemed like he desperately wanted to take that leap into the unknown, was desperate to say _yes_, but something always held him back at the last moment. Then there had been that New Year’s Eve they’d spent together, that resolution to follow through and say yes, to stop being so afraid, and that had been something of a turning point. It was still there, the undercurrent of worry, Crowley had grown used to spotting it when it reared its head, but it felt like more of an old scar than a fresh bruise, and perhaps after enough time it would fade away into nothing but a reminder of an old life.

What a treat it had been, Crowley mused, to watch him blossom before his eyes, unfurling like a beautiful flower coming into full bloom. The Zira Fell he had met six months ago would never have marched up to interrupt a conversation, laid a possessive hand on him and labelled him as his boyfriend as if it was nothing at all to be afraid of. No, the Zira Fell he had met six months ago would have dithered, muttered, and then dithered some more for good measure.

Boyfriend. What a word, something so pedestrian but, at the same time, something that filled him with a jolt of excitement. He’d shrugged it off in the past, the idea of commitment, had branded it twee and outdated, and it had seemed it, an old-fashioned way to stake your claim on another person, to tether them to you, to feel a sense of ownership over their life; it felt like something suffocating. Passing through Zira’s lips, though, the name had taken on an entirely different meaning; it felt like something soft, something warm and reassuring, the feeling of _we’re never alone, not when we have each other._ It felt, Crowley realised with a smile, a lot like the feeling of comfort he drew from sitting in that cosy country pub as the sun went down and the fire flickered to life.

_I need to bring it up._ Crowley braced both hands against the table, fingers splayed against the varnished wood as he stared down at a particularly interesting knot as if it might hold the answer to the infinite questions that were piling up in his brain. _Before we leave Tadfield, I’ll bring it up, I’ll ask him what he meant by it. How do I even broach the subject? What if he didn’t really mean it, or what if I heard it wrong and he called me something else like…his good friend? I don’t think I could survive the humiliation. I’d have to pack Barnaby into a suitcase and take to the open road, never to return to the city of London_.

Before he could make any further plans of self-imposed exile from his hometown, Zira slid back into the seat opposite him and deposited a half pint of beer onto one of the stiff coasters that had long since lost its design to the condensation of a thousand pints that had come before.

“Now, I hope you don’t mind but I got a starter as well. They had rosemary-baked camembert on the menu and who am I to say no to that? We can share, if you like.” The last sentence was tacked on as if it had come at great personal cost, Zira smiling bravely through the pain of giving up total domination of the wheel of cheese.

“Well, aren’t I special?” Crowley smiled, reaching out to slide his fingers through Zira’s, closing them around the back of his hand and giving a couple of quick squeezes. It had become something of a code in recent weeks, something unspoken that neither of them seemed to know the exact definition of but, still, it had become a source of comfort whenever either of them needed a little boost.

“Are you all right?” Zira asked, brow furrowed as he glanced down at their clasped hands.

_Ask him. Ask him what he meant, ask him if it was for real. Do it now before you lose your nerve._ There was a pause just long enough for Crowley to lose his nerve and then he gave a little nod, figuratively kicking himself as he did. “On top of the world, angel. Why wouldn’t I be? Enough about me, tell me all about your adventures in book-thieving.”

“It wasn’t _thieving_,” Zira said with a little huff of incredulity, as if he couldn’t fathom where in the world Crowley had got such an idea from. “It was creative business strategising.”

“That, my sweet little sleight of hand master, sounds a lot like a loophole.”

From across the table, Zira beamed proudly.

***

As it turned out, the young boy in the village hadn’t been lying when he’d passed on his father’s recommendation earlier that day. The pie really was one of the best Crowley had ever tasted and the chips, deep golden with a bitingly crisp outer edge and a steaming fluffy interior, were quite possible the Eighth Wonder of the World.

By the time Crowley raised a cup to his lips for the first sip of the coffee he’d ordered to keep sleepiness at bay during the drive home, Zira was almost halfway through the cocoa he’d ordered in lieu of dessert, the tiniest whisper of whipped cream lining his top lip. Crowley laughed, leaning forward to wipe it away with his thumb.

_It’s now or never_, he thought, _look how brave he’s become lately, you can’t let the side down._

“Angel, I need to ask you something and whatever you say is fine, I promise.”

“I knew you weren’t all right.” Zira’s lips quirked into a smile as he eyed Crowley from across the table, leaning back and taking a long sip of sweet cocoa. “It must be something ever so serious, you only break into fear sweats when you’re a particularly visceral type of terrified.”

“Stop, I’m already on the edge of palpitations as it is.”

“Hmm, I wonder, what could have you so riled?” Zira tapped one finger slowly against his lips as Crowley sighed, massaging his temples with the thumb and middle finger of the hand that wasn’t gripping his coffee cup within an inch of its life. _I’m enjoying this far too much. Still, having him on the back foot doesn’t happen all that often, better enjoy it while it lasts. _“Did I forget to buy bread again? No…that can’t be it, I had toast before we left and there was half a loaf left. Oh, did I _accidentally_ touch your precious thermostat again?”

“It’s nothing to do with the flat.” Crowley bit out the words, closing his eyes as if he was focusing on nothing other than soaking up any residual bravery in the vicinity, before he breathed out a string of words and looked on in horror, as if he immediately regretted it. “About what happened at Franco’s the other day.”

“Oh! Oh, I know, I’m so sorry about that.” Zira rolled his eyes and somewhere, deep in the pit of his chest, Crowley felt his heart begin to wither. “I’ll have a word with him, tell him to keep his suave Italian mitts to himself in future.”

“Well, actually, I meant…”

“Yes?” Zira asked sweetly, feeling far more confused than he was willing to let on. “Oh, spit it out, dear. You sound like me, all that umm-ing and ahh-ing.”

_This is it. This is the final moment of Before. Once I say this there is only After, for better or worse, for commitment or singledom, for life with my sweet angelic bookseller or time to flee the city and go off grid with only my faithful hound for company._

“Look, you called me your boyfriend, all right? That’s what has me so _riled_, as you put it. Please, angel, put me out of my misery. What the _hell_ did it mean?” He swallowed deeply, dropped his empty coffee cup onto the table with a clatter and folded his arms, an unconscious barrier of self-defence while he scrutinised Zira’s face for any hint, even the smallest little flicker of regret.

He didn’t find it though, regret, just a slow smile softened further by the firelight, and the feeling of Zira’s thumb tracing the crescent of skin between his index finger and thumb.

“I rather think it means exactly what it sounds like.” Zira paused to take one last sip of cocoa and slid his round cup that was more bowl than mug into place next to Crowley’s. “Sorry, boyfriend undersells it somewhat, doesn’t it? Nothing sounds quite right. Nothing really seems to encompass _this_. Still, we can use it as a placeholder, can’t we, until we think of something better? If I haven’t wildly overstepped the mark, that is.”

Crowley followed his gaze down to their hands, entwined on top of the table, and then back up to Zira’s face. His eyes outlined the sweet lift of his nose, the smile lines that deepened as he broke into a grin, and he found himself smiling in return. _How did this happen? I know it did, I lived it, but, angel, how is any of this real? How are we sitting here in the middle of nowhere having this conversation? It feels like a dream, every moment. You, most of all, feel like a dream, as if I might wake up at any moment to find everything greyscale and lonely again._

“What I’m trying to say, rather inelegantly, is that everything changed for me the day you walked into my life with your sad eyes and inexplicable jeans, and I don’t want to lose that feeling, not ever. You’re my today and, if you’ll have me, I hope perhaps you’ll be my tomorrow. I wish you’d been my yesterday too, if I’m honest, but we can’t have everything, can we?”

***

“We should go. If we stay here any longer we’ll get arrested for public indecency,” Crowley murmured, pulling back for long enough to breathe the words before he ignored his own advice and went in for another kiss, Zira’s lips soft and wet and yearning against his own.

If a stranger had wandered out of the darkness and offered him a thousand pounds, cash in hand, if he could tell them how long the two of them had been losing track of time up against a very mundane stone wall, he would not have been able to fathom the answer. Time lost all meaning when there was nothing in existence but the feeling of Zira’s body pressed to his, the bookseller’s hand cupping his face as the other found its way to the small of his back to pull him closer.

“I have to ask, boyfriend, why was me saying it in Franco’s shop such a grand revelation?” Zira paused, pressing one kiss to his jaw before he pulled back, blue eyes searching Crowley’s for an answer. “Was I…was I the only one of us who thought we’d already had that conversation?”

“We did _not_ have the Commitment Talk. Trust me, boyfriend, I would know. I’m diligent.”

“I told you we were having _The Talk_, didn’t I? At new year.”

“Yes, The Talk. That’s just a precursor to the Commitment Talk, the rosemary-baked camembert to the steak and stilton pie, if you will.”

“I do appreciate a food analogy, thank you.” Zira paused, reliving the final bite of soft beef and ale-rich gravy he’d savoured earlier that evening. He shook his head then, returning to the task at hand. “I can’t believe this entire time you thought we were just…what did you even think we were?”

“I don’t know…fooling around? I thought you’d want to take things slow.”

“_Fooling around? _I’ve had our anniversary in my calendar as January 1st since we went for brunch on New Year’s Day.”

_God, you’re perfect, _Crowley thought, sighing contentedly, as if kissing his bookselling boyfriend up against a wall in a chocolate box village in Oxfordshire was all he'd ever dreamed of._ I’ve been yours since the day we met, since the day you looked at me like I might take a bite out of you, since the day you looked at me like that was exactly what you wanted, secretly, but you didn’t have the words to say it._

“Do you know that I’m yours, completely?” Zira whispered, thumb brushing Crowley’s hair back from his forehead as he looked up at him in the dim halo of light from a nearby streetlight. “Yours, inevitably. No, no that’s still not right, is it?”

“It sounds close enough. A foregone conclusion, that’s what I said before. It felt it, didn’t it? Right from the day we met.”

“It did, even if I was too scared to admit it at the time. Didn't I tell you that today was going to be a good day? There’s something special here, can you feel it?”

Crowley’s words were muffled against Zira’s neck as he slid one thigh up between the bookseller’s legs, pressing him back harder against the wall. “I can feel _something_.”

Then came a sharp voice pinched with outrage, cutting through the darkness to leave Crowley mournfully withdrawing his leg from between Zira’s thighs.

“Excuse me, this is a _family_ area. Kindly take your…shenanigans elsewhere. Go on, get out of it.”

Crowley turned his head as Zira peered over his shoulder to take in the figure who stood a metre away on the pavement, brow creased and sandy blond moustache arching over a mouth that was spitting irritation as if he was supremely tired of telling couples to keep at least eight inches of distance between them at _all_ times.

Satisfied he’d well and truly put a dampener on things, the man nodded curtly and turned to leave, clicking his tongue to encourage the little russet red dachshund by his side to pick up the pace. “Bloody honeymooners.”

***

“Crowley?” Zira’s voice was filled with caution as he slid his hand across Crowley’s knee, vision trained on the strip of cat’s eyes that bordered their lane on the motorway. They’d been driving back from Tadfield in peaceful silence for the past hour but Zira had something to ask and he’d promised himself he would gather the courage required before they arrived back at the flat. “I actually have something of my own I want to ask you. I wasn’t sure whether it was a silly idea but, well, as you’re flying the flag for bravery today...”

“Ask me anything at all, angel. How could I say no to you, today of all days?” He turned briefly away from the road, gave Zira a little smile of reassurance and dropped one hand from the steering wheel to curl it around the bookseller’s. 

“I got wind of a couple of other events today; there’s one in particular that caught my eye. It’s an auction, you see. I’ve always had good luck at auctions in the past and they’re a lot of fun, even if you’re not the one who gets to bang the _thing_.”

“The gavel,” Crowley corrected him with a grin.

“So you do listen to me. Anyway, this auction is at a rather unusual location down in Cornwall; it seems as though it will be quite unmissable, a group of private collectors are contributing lots, so I heard earlier. All this to say, well, I’d be happy to go alone, of course, but I thought perhaps we could go together, maybe turn it into a little break, escape to the sea for a few days.”

Crowley looked across at him, one eyebrow quirking up as a smile danced on his lips. “Are you asking me to run away with you?” 

Zira laughed, closing the gap between them to plant a kiss against the side of his mouth. “I suppose I am, yes. What do you think, do you want to run away with me?” 

“Angel, I thought you’d never ask.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hi folks, how are you all doing? I hope you had a splendid weekend and the weather isn't too grey where you are, unless you happen to like it being grey :D. It's non-stop rain here but that just means time the light all the candles and get tucked up under all the blankets, so that's good enough for me.
> 
> I hope you enjoyed this little escape to Tadfield! This feels like a bit of a standalone chapter but normal London life will resume in the next chapter (coming Thursday) which is...PANCAKE DAY. Also, PurplePurr - the time for Crazy Little Thing Called Love is *finally* upon us after what feels like many, many moons since you first mentioned it!
> 
> Anyway, I hope you all have a wonderful few days and your Monday is not at all Mondayish.
> 
> See you Thursday <3


	36. Crazy Little Thing Called Love

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Crowley nodded, balling his hands into fists and punching the air to hype himself up for whatever words of wisdom were incoming. “Okay, I’m ready, hit me with another pep talk.”

**February. Z. Fell and Co., Soho.**

“Here you are,” Zira murmured, taking a tentative step onto the newly laid floorboards and peering down at the rough, unstained wood beneath his feet. “A little battered and bruised but you’re still lovely, even like this.”

It was very much a shell rather than a bookshop but things were looking (and smelling) a lot better than when Zira had last stood in the remains of his business on the day after the fire. The upstairs was still off limits while the floorboards were waiting to be fitted; the long planks of wood that would become his upstairs floor were leaning against the edge of the staircase that had been restored two days previously. Downstairs, things were a little further along but the windows were still without glass, relegated to being taped up with plastic sheeting and wooden boards but the plumbing had been fitted and the supporting walls finished. There was a lot left to do but that was precisely why Zira was at the shop that day; he had a meeting booked with the architect working on the shop’s restoration to go over initial plans and sign off the first round of designs.

“You feel like something that’s still growing.” He pondered the words as they left his lips, running a hand along the smooth wood that had been nailed across the gaping window. Even the musty smell of books and dust was gone; those comforts he had held so dear for so long.

How often, he wondered, did people get the chance to start again, to wipe clean every mistake they had ever made, every comfort blanket they smothered themselves with? That was how he felt in that moment as he wandered through the skeleton of his new life, musing how he might make up the muscle, the skin, what vital organs might transform this into something that breathed. He felt free in that space, as if a veil had been lifted and he could gaze upon his future as something real, something tangible. There had been no future before, if he was honest, just the same precious routine, unending day after day until he ran out of time to do the things he had quietly wanted but been too afraid to reach for.

It was something he had never told another soul, not even Crowley: that sometimes he had felt as though he was just going through the motions in the shop, how sometimes it felt more like an obligation than a passion, how it had become so intrinsically linked with his own sense of self that, for a time, he hadn’t known who he was beyond the funny little bookseller from that shop on the corner of Greek Street.

It felt like the greatest disloyalty in the world to think of his beloved shop, his safe haven, as anything other than perfect and it was, to him, but it had been armour too, something that he had wielded to keep the outside world just that, outside. That was, until a certain loose-limbed dog walker had sauntered into that safe haven and blown the roof off of his world.

***

“The electrics are due to be rewired in the next week so we’ll need you to mark any extra plug sockets on here.” The architect paused to rifle through the paperwork he was holding and passed Zira two floorpans, one for either floor of the building. “The original power points are already marked but, as we’re working from scratch, we can put in any extras you might need. Fighting the good fight against the technological onslaught, though, aren’t you? Bookshops, some call them the last frontier.”

Zira smiled at him, taking the papers and folding them neatly in half before sliding them into his jacket pocket, making a note to go over them with Crowley the next day to see if he thought the new digital string in his bow might require an unprecedented amount of gadgets.

“When we’re talking about layout, Mr Fell, the world is your oyster. In terms of what’s covered by your insurance, that extends as far as a like for like rebuild but we can make a few tweaks here and there as long as it’s nothing structural. What do you think, do you want to go ahead as-is, everything just the way it was before?”

_What a question_, Zira thought, as he took a step further into the shop and turned in a slow circle, taking in the harsh edges of the unfinished walls, the stark brightness of the unvarnished floor. It was all so clinical, so soulless, a world away from the reassuring darkness of the shop’s previous incarnation, the outside world shut away with all its troubling illuminations. That didn’t feel quite right either, though, not any more. He shook his head, accepting fresh copies of the original designs from the architect. “No, no I think there are a few changes I’d like to make. Can I get these back to you by the end of the week?”

_Let’s start with the windows, open up the width a little, let some of that light in._

Zira smiled to himself, offering that voice a slight nod of agreement. _It’s like you read my mind._

_Obviously, that's rather how this whole arrangement works._

***

“Oh, is that the time? I must be getting home. Thank you for your time today, I’ll get these back to you pronto.”

It had been a slip of the tongue but it had felt so natural that Zira was almost back at the flat before he realised exactly what he had said to the architect when he’d looked down at his watch and noticed he was running late for a very important date.

_Home_. Such a simple word. Synonymous with safety and calm and the one place that allows you to be truly, unapologetically yourself. He had spent so long believing that home was a place, could he even pinpoint the moment when it had become some_one_ instead of somewhere?

Feeling positive about the changes in the shop’s future that were swirling around his brain wasn’t the only reason why Zira was returning home with a spring in his step: he had an evening of pancakes, pancakes, and apparently, more pancakes on the horizon. Crowley had been talking about the day for what felt like weeks, arriving home from every shopping trip over the last fortnight with more bags of flour, despite the fact the worktops were already close to bowing under the weight of pancake-specific ingredients. Pancake-specific ingredients that Zira had learned Crowley would guard with all the ferocity of a lioness guarding a cub. In fact, he had almost lost a hand after being caught eating Nutella out of one of the sacred jars during a late night snack run two nights previously. He’d assumed breaking the seal under the cover of darkness would have been safe but he was four spoons into his midnight feast when Crowley had appeared in the doorway, face murderous and voice low as he asked why the hell Zira was spoon deep in one of the holy pancake day jars.

“Angel, is that you?” Crowley’s voice rang out before Zira had even had a chance to close the door behind him, and the dog walker appeared inches from his face a heartbeat later, eyes wild and face pinched with stress.

“Of course it’s me, who else would it-”

"Oh, thank god, you’re back.” Crowley gave him a quick kiss and pulled him into the kitchen before Zira even had a chance to take his jacket off. Crowded on the hob were three frying pans of various sizes, as well as a stack of plates balanced on top of the microwave and a cavernous bowl filled with pancake batter, poised and ready for the evening’s marathon cooking session. “Now, let me talk you through the plan.”

Crowley was known for being laid back. Well, appearing laid back might have been more accurate; even if he was internally panicking he did a good enough job at pretending every situation he found himself in was one that he could take in stride: until pancake day rolled around each year. While Lily took charge of Halloween and Mick was in charge of Christmas, Crowley’s responsibility was, and had always been, pancake day, that most underrated of celebration days that he took incredibly seriously. Lily might have been responsible for the group’s year long hangovers but it was Crowley who sweetly rocked them all into a carb coma that took them months to truly recover from.

The plan, Zira learned, was for the others to arrive within the hour, with pancake cooking commencing forty five minutes after that, accounting for a buffer in case Sammy turned up late, as he was wont to do on such occasions when lateness left Crowley growling in frustration.

“That’s a bit rich,” Zira commented, leaning over to treat himself to a spoonful of Nutella, before realising Crowley would likely evict him from the homestead if he even reached for a spoon. “It’s usually you who’s holding everyone up.”

"Not when it comes to pancakes,” Crowley said, with all the brevity the situation called for.

“I know there are a few of us tonight but…three pans, really?” Zira raised an eyebrow, nodding down at the cluster of pans that were fighting for space on the hob.

Crowley sighed, running a hand through his hair and pacing up and down the entirety of the kitchen, which didn’t take all too long considering both the length of the room and Crowley’s legs. “One for big pancakes, one for the little thick ones, one for people who like crispy edges. I know, I know, I really should think about getting a portable hob for next year, four pans would speed things up a bit.”

“I meant…never mind.”

“Angel, what are you doing?” Crowley asked, as Zira knelt down and began rummaging through one of the kitchen cupboards. He let out a little exclamation of victory and then pulled out a box, thunking it down on the worktop with glee. “What is that? We don’t have enough space for-”

“This, my sweet, frantic other half, is the answer to your problems.” He opened the box and tapped the top of the machine, which rang out in a tinny greeting. “I knew there was a reason we couldn’t resist this.”

Crowley peered at the side of the box to make out the description, then clapped a hand to his head, laughing. _Of course_. It was the crepe machine they’d rescued from the depths of Lidl’s middle aisle treasure trove. While it hadn’t yet been used, it was about to become the star of the show on a very important evening indeed.

Zira switched it on and stood back, looking all together rather pleased with himself. Crowley picked up the instructional booklet from the box and waved it in his direction. “Don’t you need to read the instructions?”

He rolled his eyes, laughing as he batted it away. “Please, Crowley, only an idiot would be stumped by this. You just switch it on, it’s rather simple. I’m sure even Barnaby could do it.”

Then came the sound of distinct huffing in his mind, cutting over the sound of Crowley’s voice.

“Barnaby doesn’t have thumbs,” Crowley pointed out, then looked across at the bookseller as he fell into silence. “Are you all right?”

“Fine, fine.” Zira nodded his head, waving away any concern. “Just thought I heard something, ignore me. All tickety-boo.”

“Look.” Crowley took Zira’s hand as he gave him a look that was made far more intense by the fact the whites of his eyes were far too visible for somebody who had been doing nothing but prepping for pancakes for the past three hours. “If I start to get…lost in the moment, I need you to swear to help me snap out of it, okay? I mean it. Angel, why are you laughing? This is serious!”

***

“Right on time,” Crowley murmured approvingly as the intercom sounded, palming a couple of dog treats as he headed towards the door.

A moment later came a flourish of knocks and then Raphael and Luci were stepping into the flat, shrugging out of their coats and depositing them on the hooks by the door as if they’d visited a hundred times before. Crowley felt a flush of warmth as he noticed the little gesture of intimacy, then snapped to attention as, eagle-eyed, he noticed Barnaby’s hackles begin to rise as he spotted Luci, a newcomer, as far as he was concerned anyway.

“Don’t you dare,” he warned, brandishing a disciplinary index finger in the dog’s direction and then turning to Raphael and Luci, passing them both a dog treat with some degree of apology in his voice. “Consider it a bribe. You can throw it if you like, if you don’t want to get too close, it’s all the same to him. I’m pretty sure he thinks they’re sacred offerings.”

Luci let out a little laugh and walked right up to the big black dog, crouching down in front of his bed and reaching out one hand to offer him the treat, while the other gently stroked the soft fur of his neck. Barnaby peered at Crowley as he accepted the offering, apparently taken aback at the brazenness of this interloper who appeared to be entirely non-plussed by his domineering presence.

“Aren’t you a beautiful boy?” they said, holding their palm outstretched so Barnaby could confirm, after a thorough sniff, that there were no hijinks at play concealing any further treats. “Just like a shadow, aren’t you?”

Barnaby turned his attention to Raphael then, rising from his bed like a king and pacing slowly across the room, eyes fixed on the man who sat, rather nervously, on the edge of the sofa, watching him with trepidation in his eyes. He was familiar with the man’s scent now, was fairly sure he could be trusted, given the way his master had so readily invited him into their kingdom more than once, but he liked to be thorough with his investigation. He let out one deep bark and then sat down at the man’s feet, front paws pressing against the toe of the man’s shoes.

Crowley hovered by the edge of the sofa, watching carefully and wondering at what point he should intervene, or at least wail in Raphael’s face that _Barnaby was a good boy really, honestly, just a big softie underneath_. Before it became necessary to hook a finger through Barnaby’s collar and haul him, in disgrace, into another room until he calmed down and stopped harassing guests for fun, Raphael held out the dog treat, gripping one end between two fingers as if he wanted to put as much space between his digits and Barnaby’s teeth as possible.

Satisfied that this newcomer was a friendly presence rather than anything to be alarmed by, Barnaby took the treat between his teeth and proceeded to chew and swallow it incredibly slowly without breaking eye contact with the man for a single second. Then he ferreted around by the coffee table and promptly flung his beloved but bedraggled panda toy into the man’s lap and waited for his new friend to throw it for him.

“Well, that was tense,” Zira remarked from the kitchen doorway, where he’d watched the scene unfold with barely concealed amusement. Seeing Raphael express anything other than deep-rooted confidence was such a rare occurrence that one had to soak up those moments when they arrived, he had learned over the years. “Drinks, anyone?”

While Zira busied himself preparing drinks in the kitchen and Raphael was manipulated into playing a never-ending game of fetch with Barnaby, who had adopted the man as his new best friend, Luci took Crowley by the arm and guided him over to the stretch of wall where their sketch now hung, proudly looking over its subject.

“You kept it,” they said, voice light with surprise. “Just a silly little sketch.”

“Of course I kept it.” Crowley smiled, noticed the way Luci had laid a hand on his arm, the other softly knotted in the fabric of their silk shirt, resting above their heart. “It’s beautiful. It reminds me of everything I’ve built here. Everything…”

He stopped, shaking his head and exhaling a laugh of derision.

“Go on, little one, what were you going to say?”

“When you came here that day I was embarrassed of not…having enough. I thought you’d both, I don’t know, I just knew that it didn’t feel like I had enough to offer. But you didn’t notice how small it is, that the walls really need repainting, that there’s damp in the kitchen; all you noticed was the light, something I stopped paying attention to years ago. When you drew this place and I saw it through your eyes it was…suddenly it felt like enough.”

“What in the world would you have to be embarrassed about, you sweet thing?” They turned away from the picture and searched his face for an answer, confusion knitting their brows together.

Crowley sighed, wondering how a simple expression of surprise that he’d held onto a drawing had so quickly transformed into such a soul-baring confession. He glanced at the open kitchen door, heard Zira muttering to himself as he sliced cocktail garnishes in the limited space the imminent pancake production line afforded. _Still_, he thought, _bravery and all that_. “I want you two to think I’m good enough for him.”

While Luci had been almost overwhelmingly welcoming to him since the day they’d first met, there was a hardness beneath their surface that Crowley had sensed from the moment they’d walked into the bookshop and he’d fallen under their spell. It was the feeling of _once you’re in, you’re in but getting in? That’s the challenge._ It was a kind of caution, he thought, perhaps borne out of past worries of not quite fitting in. What was their life like, he wondered, before Raphael? Was it always such an expression of creativity underpinned by an infectious lust for life, or was the reason they were looking at him so tenderly because they understood the crippling feeling of inadequacy all too well? They had seen right through his veneer of confidence from day one and perhaps that was why, perhaps looking at him was like looking at an echo of their own past.

“Oh, come here, you fool. What are you two like?” They reached for him, pulling him close and enveloping him in a wash of empathy, of understanding. He felt the slip of their shirt collar against his collarbone, wondered idly if it had cost a week’s worth of rent, or more, or less, and fought back the sudden urge to cry.

Luci took a step back, hands clamped onto his shoulders as they fixed him with an urgent look. They looked up at him, such as the height difference dictated, though Crowley felt as though he was the smaller one, as if a parent was softly counselling him. “Listen to me. Do you know how many times Zira has sat on our sofa and lamented that he will never be enough for you? Because, if I’m honest, I lost count and patience a long time ago. You’re both so concerned with trying to prove that you’re good enough that you haven’t stopped to notice how enamoured you’ve been with each other this entire time. You did, without realising, what we’ve been trying to do for what feels like bloody eternity; you’ve made him happy and you’ve made his world so much bigger. That made you good enough from the moment you met. Now, I don’t want to hear another word about it, you’ve got pancakes to make and nobody likes crepes with a side of self-pity, all right?”

As Crowley smiled, nodding in agreement and wrapping one hand around Luci’s silk-clad forearm, there was a knock at the door and Zira tugged it open. Raucous cheers echoed around the flat as Mick, Lily, and Sammy tumbled inside in a blare of noise and colour. Mick paused as he passed Zira, pressing a stack of three egg boxes into his hands. “Just in case his highness needs extras; he gets clumsy when he’s nervous.”

“Hubbies, we’re home!” Lily called, turning to hang her leather jacket up and revel in the impending annoyance she expected would be radiating off of Crowley in waves.

There was no annoyance to be found, though, as he simply arrived by Zira’s side, sliding an arm around his waist and kissing him, before turning back to her with a smile of self-satisfaction. “It’s boyfriends now, actually. God, get it right, Lil.”

“Officially?” Lily shrieked, as if she was only one confirmation away from dusting off the hat she reserved purely for nuptial celebrations.

Sammy sighed, as though the weight of the world was hanging from his shoulders. “How did you manage to accidentally swagger straight into romance while I’ve been sniffing it out with bloodhound dedication for _months_ and have yet to catch a whiff?”

“Oh, pipe down.” Lily elbowed him. “You’ve been married and divorced twice in the time it’s taken him to find this one. And while we’re on the subject of weddings I just want to let it be known that I’m claiming the role of Best Woman right now so the rest of you can back off.”

As Crowley ushered them over to meet Raphael and Luci, Zira closed the door and sighed to himself. “Was I really the only person who thought we’d been official since new year?”

“For what it’s worth,” Mick whispered, turning away from the group as he caught Zira’s words. “He’s been trying to get up the courage to ask you since Halloween. I’m really happy for you, son, you’re made for each other.”

***

Zira had been put on drink duty for the evening, leaving Crowley in charge of cooking. And entertaining. And, of course, music. The bookseller was in the kitchen preparing the next round of drinks when he heard a sharp rap at the door and instinctively rushed to answer it, stopping short and laughing to himself as Crowley got there first and ushered the Shadwells inside. As he gave them a wave from the kitchen door and returned to the tray of gin glasses he was adding ice to, he reminded himself that Crowley knew the couple just as well as he did, probably even better, given that he called in three times a week to pick up and drop off the dogs. It was a strange feeling, Tracy and Shadwell being a link that predated them knowing each other. Was it possible, he mused, that they had ever been close to crossing paths in that idyllic little house with the impossibly fetching front garden? Had they ever caught the scent of each other in the air after a near chance encounter, taken a moment to inhale it and wonder?

A moment later music flared to life in the living room and then Crowley joined him in the kitchen, wrapping both arms around his waist and leaning in to kiss his cheek. “Guests: arrived. Music: setting the mood. Perfectly, I might add. Drinks: on the go. Let’s make some pancakes, angel.”

“And you’re going to stay calm?” Zira asked, turning to face him, his earlier words echoing in his mind.

Crowley nodded, holding up his hands as if it was a promise. “So calm.”

***

Crowley had stuck to his pledge to stay calm. For the first twenty minutes, until he’d started to prepare another batch of pancake batter and had promptly dropped an egg, slipped on said egg, and thrown half a bowl of the remaining batter up the wall behind the hob. Even then he had managed to retain a shred of calm, counting slowly to ten before beginning again. That time, the slippery batter on his fingers had sent a full bag of flour cascading down towards the ground as he was powerless to do anything other than look on in horror as the bag exploded on impact, carpeting the floor with a thick covering of white dust. As Zira tried desperately not to laugh at a volume that would be audible, Barnaby took that moment to gallop happily into the kitchen and skid through the middle of the snowy carpet of flour.

“_Out_,” Crowley had hissed, pointing one furious finger at the kitchen door, leaving Barnaby dejectedly slinking back into the living room, tracking white paw prints in his wake. Momentarily distracted by the dog’s presence, he had forgotten to turn down the heat and the coconut oil in one pan had begun to smoke, leading to the ever-vigilant fire alarm rearing its very loud, very shrill head.

It screamed to life in the kitchen, a high-pitched shriek that somehow managed to wail even louder than Crowley. He hurled the kitchen window open, hanging out of it and fanning himself as he bellowed frantic apologies over his shoulder at Zira, who was wafting a tea towel ceiling-ward in a vain attempt to silence the alarm.

“Angel, I’m so sorry! The alarm…I didn’t think.” He pulled back from the window, wiping his brow with one forearm before stretching up towards the alarm, which was resolutely determined not to be silenced. “Bloody thing has always been overactive. Only way to make it shut up is to take the batteries out.”

Zira reached up to pull his hands away from the alarm, laughing as he slung the tea towel over his shoulder. “It’s fine, honestly. If I have to escape another inferno I’ll be at peace knowing crepes are behind it.”

“Why do I do this to myself?” Crowley lamented, pouring batter into two pans and picking up the handle of the third to jig the little pancake about to ensure it didn’t stick. “Every year I say I’m never doing it again but I always forget, angel, I always forget how stressful it is. You’ll remind me this time, won’t you? Don’t let me volunteer again. I can’t handle the pressure. Look at this. Look at this pancake, it’s a _shitty_ pancake. I’m going to bin it. I’m going to bin all of them and start again. Do you think Tesco still has any of those pre-made pancakes we can heat up? I know it’s cheating but…my blood pressure, angel, think of my blood pressure. I think if I just…”

“Snap out of it, man!” Sensing Crowley was beginning a hasty descent into pancake-induced mania, Zira grabbed the neck of his t-shirt in both hands and gave him a good, hard shake. “Get a grip! They’re just pancakes. You are a man, you are stronger than they are, you are smarter than they are, you can do this. I believe in you. You are a strong, capable, sexy chef who will conquer these pancakes before the night is out. Say it. What are you?”

“I’m a strong, capable…” He trailed off then, voice wavering as he looked down at Zira, unsure.

“Say it, Crowley.”

“I’m a strong, capable chef who will…”

“Aren’t you forgetting something?” Tightening his grip on Crowley’s t-shirt, Zira leaned in to kiss him with enough reckless abandon that it gave him all the courage he needed.

“I’m a strong, capable, sexy chef who will conquer these pancakes before the night is out!” Crowley roared the words with vigour, punching the air as a final flourish while Zira clapped his hands to cheer him on.

Then came the sound of a cough of disbelief, an affectionate sigh, and they turned to find Sammy in the doorway, looking at once both confused and amused. “Why are you two so bloody weird? Match made in heaven, I swear. I just came to ask if you need me to take anything through to the table.”

“Begone, postman. I have pancakes to conquer!”

Sammy opened his mouth as if he had something to add, then shook his head in dismay and padded back into the kitchen, leaving a flutter of wide footprints in the flour.

Alone again, Zira leaned in to wipe a streak of flour off of Crowley’s cheek and kissed the tip of his nose. “Listen.”

Crowley nodded, balling his hands into fists and punching the air to hype himself up for whatever words of wisdom were incoming. “Okay, I’m ready, hit me with another pep talk.”

“No, _listen_.” Zira laughed, then inclined his head towards the living room, where there was only the sound of music and laughter and warm chatter filtering into the kitchen. “Everyone is having a great time, all you had to do was bring them together. Enjoy yourself, my love, everybody else is.”

The bookseller went to leave then, turning back to grab a pancake off of the waiting stack and quickly roll it up, taking a bite before Crowley could protest. “And these are delicious, by the way.”

***

“Are you _serious_, Lily?” Sammy bellowed, apologising as he reached across Mick to spear Lily’s coconut oil-crisped pancake with his fork and transfer it hastily to his own plate. “I told you I had my eye on that one.”

“And that made it look all the more delicious.” Lily shrugged, waiting until he turned back to his conversation with Mick and Shadwell about the possibility of transforming his little balcony into a container garden. Then, before he noticed a thing, she stole the pancake back and slathered it in Nutella and banana slices.

“Now, now hang on. What the hell is that?” Mick’s voice rose above the din and hushed silence fell over the table as the group turned, as one, to stare incredulously at Raphael, who was carefully spreading treacle edge to edge across his pancake, following it with a layer of clotted cream, a shaking of cocoa powder, and a squeeze of lemon, as meticulously as if he was working on a priceless piece of art.

Raphael looked up then, noticing the silence, and found every pair of eyes, including Barnaby’s ever-hopeful ones, trained on him.

“What?” he asked, rolling up his monstrosity of a pancake and cutting a slice, brandishing it on the edge of his fork in case there were any interested takers. “Don’t knock it ’til you’ve tried it.”

Luci sighed, and the others turned to them as they launched into the story of the little pancake house they’d visited in Soest where Raphael had accidentally ordered the overly sweet concoction and claimed to have fallen in love with the flavours. “I think he’s just trying to be shocking, personally.”

“Well, sounds like a good’un to me.” Shadwell gave Raphael a quick nod of approval, before hastily replicating the flavour combination with his next pancake.

Zira stood in the kitchen doorway, arms folded across his chest as he watched the evening unfold with a warm smile on his face. Their two worlds had collided so perfectly, Raphael and Luci slotting seamlessly into that hectic, vibrant family that Crowley had built for himself. It was almost unfathomable how much love was crowded into the little flat, how those most unlikely of groups of people were all bonded by the one person who linked them together. _This is what makes a life well-lived_, Zira thought. _This. People, memories. Not things_. He looked at Raphael and Tracy deep in conversation, his mentor’s expression the picture of focus as he listened to her explain that of _course_ he was feeling a little hesitant of late but not to worry, Mercury retrograde was soon to be over. Next to them, Luci and Lily had their heads bent low, Luci’s hand held up in front of their mouths as they furiously whispered to each other, one of them breaking away from the conversation every few moments to squawk out a laugh. And there, in the centre of it all, quietly eating a pancake and feeding the crispy edges to Barnaby, was his Crowley, surrounded by all of that wonderful, unconventional love that was everything he deserved.

“Angel,” Crowley called, looking up as if Zira’s thoughts had bloomed to life in his own brain. He patted the empty chair next to him. “Come here before it gets cold, I made you a crepe.”

It was, Zira reasoned, as he sat down next to Crowley and looked down at the plate in front of him, perhaps the most perfect crepe he had ever seen. And he’d seen a lot of them. Wonderfully golden from edge to edge, it had been spread with a generous layer of Nutella and then topped with fluffy mini marshmallows, arranged in the shape of a heart. He let out a happy little sigh of pure bliss, one hand finding Crowley’s under the table as the other folded the crepe into a neat fan shape with the side of his fork.

“Great spread, mate, as always.” Mick swallowed the final mouthful of his fifth pancake and gave Crowley a thumbs up across the table as he helped himself to another pancake from the stack. “Won’t need to eat again until Christmas at this rate.”

Murmurs of assent were offered up around the table and Zira felt a bubble of amusement rise up in his throat as Crowley blushed at the praise, promising that the next year’s offering would be even bigger and better.

“So, you two are off to Cornwall in a fortnight,” Raphael began, pausing to chew and swallow another mouthful of pancake. “Tipped to be a corker, the auction, all the way over on the Mount, isn’t it?”

“Hubbies’ first holiday?” Luci asked with a devilish smile. Next to them, Lily clapped her hands together in delight, near hysterical with the joy of recruiting another member to her cause of perpetually trying to irritate Crowley by any means possible.

After his momentary lapse of annoyance earlier that evening, Crowley’s head snapped up at the sound of the word he had come to dread over the months, opened his mouth to fire back a pre-prepared comment of withering derision, then realised it was Luci who had spoken and promptly closed his mouth, shooting Lily a glare to confirm the war was not over, even though she had begun to gather an army.

Zira tried and failed to think of a time when he had been so comfortable and so utterly happy in such a social situation. With one hand holding Crowley’s and the other delivering bite after bite of crepe to his mouth with factory line regularity, Zira found himself somehow holding three conversations at once. Every so often he would break away from the chatter to turn and smile at Crowley, stealing a kiss when he couldn’t resist any longer, tasting the sour hit of lemon on his lips, the sweetness of sugar on his tongue.

_How did I think I was ever going to do anything other than fall desperately in love with you? Of course. Of course that’s what this is. It's not a crush or an infatuation or co-dependency. It's love. I’m in love with you,_ Zira thought, the realisation arriving as suddenly and obviously as if it was a memory.

The voice in his head yawned to life with its cheery commentary then, as the weight of Zira’s unspoken words began to dawn on him. _You've realised, at last. Now all you have to do is tell him._

There, surrounded by his oldest friends, his newest friends, and the man who was to be the great love of his life, Zira swallowed nervously.

And then he began to dither.

_Oh…fuck._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hi everyone! Hope you're all well and have been having fun, whatever you've been getting up to this week :D.
> 
> I hope you enjoyed pancake day (Almond, ALL GRIEVANCES WILL BE SETTLED IN DUE COURSE 😂) and are feeling suitably peckish! Next up is a road trip down to Cornwall, so that kicks off on Sunday evening.
> 
> P.S. Shoutout to PurplePurr for mentioning Crazy Little Thing Called Love *many* months ago - it instantly gave me the pancake day idea so I knew right from the planning stages of Part II that this was going to be when Zira realises he's in love with Crowley. Thanks for the inspiration, pal! <3


	37. I'm In Love With My Car

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “Oh, calm down, I was thinking about you the whole time.”

**March. Crowley’s Flat, London.**

“That definitely wasn’t a good sound.” Crowley sighed, after a low wheeze of exertion had been forced from his lips as he swung his suitcase off of the bed and carried it into the living room to prop it up by the front door. “It’s finally happened. I’ve reached the age where I can’t pick up anything heavy without harrumphing.”

“What’s that, dear?” Zira asked, his words muffled as he all but disappeared inside the wardrobe to wrestle with a shirt that was, Crowley would lay money on it, identical to the five other shirts he had already packed.

“Nothing, angel,” he called, padding back into the bedroom and plopping down on the edge of the bed, casting a furtive glance over his shoulder as he tugged open the top drawer of his bedside table, pulled something out and tucked it into his jacket pocket before Zira could notice. “Do you want anything from the petrol station? I need to fill up before we leave.”

Zira emerged from the wardrobe then, shirt held aloft victoriously. He neatly folded it and placed it lovingly in his suitcase on top of the other shirts, face the picture of concentration as he debated which road trip snacks to request. “Dairy Milk turkish delight, please. And some strawberry laces. And a banana milk.”

“Turkish delight, strawberry laces, banana milk. Got it.” Crowley nodded, leaned over the bed for a goodbye kiss and then strolled as casually as he could over to the door. _Great, _he thought, rolling his eyes as he jogged down the stairs, _why did I ask about snacks? Of course he was going to have a pre-prepared list, now I actually do have to go to the bloody petrol station. Turkish delight for a road trip, really?_

***

Crowley began to feel a little out of sorts somewhere between leaving the petrol station and arriving at the car park of the clandestine location he had snuck off to. It was as though clouds had rolled across the landscape of his mind, leaving him feeling as drowsy as if he hadn’t slept properly for days. He stifled a yawn, elbows steepled against the steering wheel as he switched off the ignition and wondered if picking up that suitcase had done him more damage than he’d realised.

By the time he reached the building he was seeing stars but both the receptionist and the salesman he spoke to acted as though nothing at all was out of the ordinary, as though he wasn’t fighting a losing battle to overcome the urge to yawn every few seconds. It might have been the unspoken British tradition of politely ignoring anything _strange_ that was happening at any given moment, but Crowley had the unsettling feeling they didn’t notice at all, as if he was the only one aware that he was one slow blink away from being asleep on his feet.

When it came time to sign the paperwork, he felt as though he could barely keep his head upright, heard next to nothing of what the salesman told him about the terms and conditions, barely even registered what day his lease was due to run out. _What’s happening to me? Why do I feel so…out of it?_

He staggered across the car park, keys clenched in his fist, and reached the numbered bay they’d pointed him in the direction of. All he could do was brace one hand against the back windscreen as the feeling of television static overcoming his own thoughts grew more and more acute until he slipped helplessly into a dreamless sleep that might have lasted for a minute, or perhaps six hours, he wouldn’t know. As far as he’d be concerned, he’d come to feeling extremely well-rested, albeit with a slightly fuzzy recollection of the past few hours but the memories would be there all the same, nestled innocently in his mind as if nothing at all untoward had taken place. There’d be absolutely no harm done.

_No_, Crowley mused, as he rolled his shoulders back two, three times and leaned his head to the left until he heard a satisfying click in his neck, _no harm done at all._

“I missed you, beautiful.” He reached out a hand, letting out a sigh of satisfaction as he felt the smooth curves of the Bentley under his palm. He ran a hand slowly along the length of the vintage car, could feel the giddy smile on his face but did nothing at all to try and hide it. Together again, at last. “It’s been far too long, my girl. Let’s go for a spin, shall we? Just me and you.”

***

Crowley fiddled with the keys for far too long, trying every one on the keyring before he finally found the one that matched the front door of the flat. A brief wiggle to and fro and then he was inside, stepping cautiously over the threshold and calling out hopefully. “Angel?”

Zira popped his head around the bedroom door, gave him a little wave before disappearing back inside to finish packing. “Almost ready, dear, did you get everything you needed? You were ages.”

“Oh, Zira, hi.” He felt his heart sink. It was too much to hope, really. He’d had days to plan this, had been working himself up to a seamless daytime takeover ever since Anthony had snuck out one lunchtime to call the number on the Christmas present Zira had given him to book his Bentley rental for their upcoming Cornish escape. There was no way he could have given Aziraphale any warning but, still, there was a sharp stab of disappointment in his chest at what felt like a painful missed opportunity. _I’m sorry, angel, looks like it’s just me this time_.

_So odd_, he thought, taking a moment to let his eyes roam over the bookseller’s face. _You look just like him, I know you do, but you’re not him, you’re not my angel. Would he feel the same? Could he look at Anthony and see me, but at the same time feel as though he’s looking at a stranger?_

Zira wrinkled his nose, fixing Crowley with a look that fell halfway between hurt and confusion. “What have I done wrong?”

“What?” Crowley took a step back as the bookseller ventured out of the bedroom, shortening the gap between them by two uncertain paces.

“You called me Zira. You only call me that when you’re particularly furious with me. So, come on, out with it, there’ll be no snippiness on our mini break of dreams. What have I done?”

_Well, this is going about as well as I should have expected._

“Nothing, angel, you’ve done nothing wrong. Sorry. Let’s get going, shall we? I've got a surprise to show...” As Crowley tried to channel Anthony’s frantic energy that he had had plenty of time to become accustomed to, he motioned towards the door and looped two fingers through the handle of his suitcase.

“You _are_ angry with me,” Zira lamented, voice high pitched and filled with sorrow as he took three tentatively steps closer and searched Crowley’s face for evidence of what he might have done to deserve such a cold shoulder. On the first day of their romantic getaway, no less, which stung all the more. “You didn’t even kiss me when you came in. Look, if it’s about the thermostat, I can explain.”

_Oh…oh, I really didn’t think this through, did I? See, angel, this is what happens when you’re not around to veto my great ideas. Are you in there? Are you watching this? Please, please say you’re having a little snooze right now, daydreaming about crepes or something equally adorable._

Carefully-rehearsed explanation about the hellfire-esque temperature in the flat delivered with Shakespearean levels of theatre and flourish, Zira had fallen silent, eyeing Crowley’s lips expectantly as his own pouted ever so slightly. Crowley swallowed, mentally weighing up whether sacrificing a cross-country jaunt in his beloved Bentley would be more painful than withstanding the apoplectic rage he could expect when he next stood in Aziraphale’s presence. He would never hear the end of it. And never was an exceptionally long time for a celestial being.

_I can hear you now_, Crowley winced, _ten thousand years down the line and you’ll still be using it as leverage for why I’m the one who always has to make the tea. Angel, I’m sorry, but…come on, it’s the Bentley. Forgive me for what I’m about to do._

There was nothing for it. Crowley closed his eyes, thought of nothing but the soft leather of the Bentley’s steering wheel beneath his palms, and pressed his lips against Zira’s for precisely one second. To his surprise, it was the bookseller who pulled back first. He took a step back, eyeing Crowley curiously and bringing a hand up to the side of his head.

“What was that?” he asked, looking around sharply as if he expected a bird to have collided with the living room window.

“What was what, angel?” Crowley waited until he’d turned away to take a closer look at whatever it was he presumed had made the sound before he broke into a smile, giving a little shake of his head. Apparently Aziraphale was neither having a little snooze nor daydreaming of crepes. _Still found a way to make your presence known, have you?_

Before he could ruminate on exactly how incandescent with fury his angelic counterpart must have been to miss out on the opportunity to stretch his legs once again, Crowley heard a little scuff against the floorboards and turned around, inhaling with a quiet gasp as he discovered the source of the noise.

Barnaby sat in the kitchen doorway, head cocked to one side as his tail slowly arced back and forth against the floorboards. He pushed up onto all fours and padded warily over to Crowley, who knelt down on the ground and offered him a hand, palm up, for the dog to sniff, just like he had the first time they'd met in another world.

_Do you know who I am? Do I smell different here, can you smell the evil in me? Please, my sweet boy, please don’t be scared of me. I’m so sorry I couldn’t help you that day, that I couldn’t stop the car. If there was anything I could have done I would have, I promise you. As soon as I’m back, once I’m…me, properly me, nothing will ever hurt you again. It might be breaking the rules a little but, well, it’ll be our secret, right, boy? Do you remember me at all? I know there are no miracles here but, please, I hope you remember me._

“It’s me, boy. I missed you,” he whispered, heart clenching as the dog nosed his hand, considered the scent for a moment and then, as if it had unlocked a long-dormant memory, let out a little bark and buried his face against Crowley’s chest as if he had somehow missed him just as much, as if maybe he really did remember the person who had made him feel so safe on that strange day when white stuff had fallen from the sky. As a sob escaped Crowley’s lips and he quickly disguised it as a cough, he wrapped his arms around the dog’s shoulders, feeling a flare of guilt as his fingers brushed over the scars he had been powerless to prevent. He rested his cheek against Barnaby’s dark fur and felt the dog’s long snout press against his collarbone; they stayed like that for a moment, Barnaby’s soft pant ruffling his hair, until Zira stepped over them to get into the kitchen, huffing pointedly as he did so.

“Well, I see where I am in the pecking order.”

***

The open road. There was nothing like it. Driving; it had always been one of the human world’s inventions that he had loved the most. It could feel like flying, if you had the right set of wheels and a strong enough imagination. A demonically miraculous power over the laws of physics helped too, which Crowley did not have at his disposal on that particular day, but he was far too happy to be back in the driver’s seat to be too concerned that the Bentley didn’t seem all that keen on travelling anywhere faster than fifty miles an hour.

_Finally bound by speed restrictions. You must be chuckling to yourself in there_, he thought, with a smile.

Behind the wheel of his beloved car, with rolling countryside stretching out for miles ahead and only his dog and angel (well, if Zira stayed silent and Crowley squinted a bit he could pretend) for company, it felt a lot like paradise had arrived even sooner than he’d thought. In five minute intervals, at least, which seemed to be the maximum amount of time Zira could keep quiet for, and that was only because he was distracted by snacks.

_How many times did we have journeys like this, angel? Did I always appreciate them the way I should have? Do you remember when we drove this route before, how scared we were? Still running, like we always were, just waiting for something to reach down from the sky and snatch us. I remember being too afraid to even look at you, as if you might fade away if I dared to believe we might make it._

“Drink?" Zira asked, offering Crowley his half-empty banana milk, a little bubble of the sweet drink clinging to the rim of the bottle.

Crowley shook his head, smiled, then turned his attention back to the road, just as Zira muttered sulkily under his breath. “Too good for banana milk now, I see.”

It was sweet, which was not a word Crowley used lightly, to see Zira and Anthony’s relationship up close instead of through the veil he had to peer through to make out the world when he was nothing but a passenger in Anthony’s mind. Although, things were getting a little more up and close and _interactive_ than he had anticipated.

_Stupid_, he thought, _why didn’t I see this coming? _He glanced across at Zira. _Look at who your blueprint is, as if you were ever destined to be anything other than a handsy little hedonist. No wonder Anthony’s always so exhausted._

They had made it all the way to Exeter without incident before Zira reached out to slide his fingers slowly up the length of Crowley’s jeans, palm coming to rest on his leg as his fingertips pressed against his inner thigh.

_No, no, no, stop that immediately. Angel, control your human_. _Why is he looking at me like that? More to the point, why don’t you look at me like that? You have never, in six thousand years, looked at me with that much blind devotion. Devotion, yes, but devotion and weariness in equal measure, always. When you get out of there, we’re having words._

And then Zira’s fingers began to stray into dangerous territory and Crowley knew he had to act quickly or make another impossible choice about whether to deal a blow Anthony’s relationship or his own. His own, when it came down to it, he was sure. _Bloody useless, selfless demon that I am_.

After casting a quick glance in the mirror to make sure nobody was behind them, he slammed on the breaks and let out an irritated hiss. “Bloody rabbit. Did you see that, angel?”

“Careful!” Zira shrieked, hand jumping away from his leg as he peered down at the side of the road. “Did you hit it? It might be hurt.”

“Just missed it.” Crowley nodded solemnly, letting out a slow exhale of relief. “Better not distract me, you know, road safety and all that.”

“Mmm, yes, I suppose it can wait.”

Fictional rabbit alive and well, their journey continued peacefully, with Zira being rocked gently to sleep thanks to the calming rumble of the car’s engine, the rhythmic undulation of the ground passing beneath the wheels. _Or maybe it’s just sugar overload_, Crowley thought, as the empty packet that had previously contained strawberry laces fell out of the bookseller’s loose grip and fluttered into the footwell.

As Devon gave way to Cornwall and the end of the journey lay in sight, Crowley looked across at the bookseller’s sleeping face and smiled fondly to himself, feeling an unexpected rush of affection soar in his chest as Zira’s eyelashes twitched softly, as if he’d slipped suddenly into a dream. Crowley turned back to the road, sighing as he settled into that lifetime habit of yearning endlessly for Aziraphale. _He’s more like you when he’s asleep, angel. He could be you, sleeping there by my side, the only place you should ever be. I miss you, even though you’re right there, somewhere._

And then, as suddenly as the idea of the aforementioned fictional rabbit had arrived in Crowley’s mind, a hand shot out and flicked him sharply on the thigh and then the forearm, just to make sure the message sunk in.

“Feeling _loose-lipped, _were you?!”

“What the hell are you-” His exclamation of disbelief was cut short as a palm made contact with his shoulder and gave him a good, hard shove. He tore his eyes away from the road for long enough to glare at Zira, hoping he could channel enough demonic energy to give him second thoughts about further pushing and shoving. As his eyes registered Zira’s face, panicked understanding dawned on him. Uh oh. It was worse than he thought. “Oh. Hi, angel.”

There, sitting in the passenger seat, vibrating with barely fathomable anger, was Aziraphale. His face softened and Crowley breathed a sigh of relief, then the angel turned to stroke Barnaby behind the ears. “Hello, boy. Haven’t you grown since I last saw you?”

Before Crowley could stutter an apology, Aziraphale turned back to him, mouth set in a grim line. “Don’t you even _think_ about giving me the old _hi, angel_ routine. First outing on your own and you’re locking lips with somebody else. I cannot _believe_ you. Lost interest after six thousand years, hmm? Thought you’d give the _human experience_ a go?”

“Oh, calm down, I was thinking about you the whole time.” It wasn’t a helpful thing to say, Crowley knew that, but it had been far too long since he’d been relaxed enough to tease Aziraphale into oblivion, and it was too seductive a notion to resist. As it turned out, hell had no fury like a principality scorned. He reached out to place a loving hand on the angel’s knee, stifled a laugh as Aziraphale wrenched both legs as far as he could in the opposite direction. “If it makes you feel any better there was absolutely nothing going on jeanward. Not even a tingle, so you can settle down.”

“I will _not_!”

“I’d expect nothing less.” Crowley grinned, then raised an eyebrow as he navigated a glass bottle that had blown into the road. “Look, what was I supposed to do? We agreed we wouldn’t do anything to mess with their lives, remember?”

“It was only one kiss, I’m sure he could have coped.” Aziraphale bit out the words, resentment dripping from each and every syllable. He knew Crowley hadn’t had a choice, had felt absolutely no spark of anything radiate from either the demon’s lips or Zira’s in that brief second of contact but still, but _still_.

Crowley gave him a withering stare. “Really? You know him better than I do but the impression I have of your high-strung little man is that he is not the type to take rejection on the chin.”

“Well, he _was_ feeling a little distressed.” Aziraphale conceded with a short huff that sounded a lot like backing down. “He would have known something was up, I suppose, your little man with his…proclivity for affection, such as it is.”

“Mmm. I wonder where he gets it from.” Crowley eased the car off of the road and came to a stop in a lay-by that overlooked the Cornish hills, switching off the ignition and clapping both hands against his thighs, as if he’d only just realised that the two of them were there together and it wasn’t some sort of bitchy fever dream of Aziraphale brought to life to try and tempt him. “Come here, angel.”

He leaned in to kiss him, knowing it was a risk but trusting his own determination to stay in the light would prevail, and that time, though it lasted exactly as long as his kiss earlier had, it was enough to leave him sighing with longing. “That’s better.”

“Yes, all right, that did feel a bit…different from earlier.” Aziraphale reached out to bring a hand to the demon’s face, fingers flickering over his skin as if he too was reminding himself that they were real.

Crowley covered the angel’s hand with his own, fell serious for a moment. “As if there could ever be another soul in existence who could turn my head.”

A flush of pink in Aziraphale’s cheeks, followed by a shy little smile. “Well, that was very smooth.”

“I’m forgiven then?”

“I think eternal tea duty sounds like fair penance, don’t you?”

Crowley threw his head back in laughter.

“What?”

“Nothing, angel. I just love you, that’s all. I’m glad we could be here together, even if it’s only for a minute.”

“I couldn’t let you have all the fun, could I? Lucky your new and improved driving style sent him off to sleep.” Aziraphale chuckled, reaching over to run one hand along the steering wheel.

“And there I was thinking it was the strawberry laces.”

They fell silent then, momentarily lost to their own thoughts as they gazed out across the sprawling landscape of green and amber, the first tinges of dusk casting a golden sheen on everything the light touched. The sea lay flat against the horizon, a grey strip that could have been the sky, and perhaps it was, so impossible it was to tell where the water ended and the clouds began. Wild, all of it, and wonderful too.

Aziraphale was right, as he tended to be. You could breathe easier by the sea. It was freedom that lay in front of them and Crowley marvelled at how different it felt that time, to feel safe enough to pause midway through the journey to stop and take it in, to sit side by side with his angel and do nothing but breathe. The last time, in the old world, he had barely dared to take a breath until they’d arrived at the cottage, as if the very action of his heart beating would have set off a siren in heaven.

“He’s in love with him, you know,” Aziraphale said finally, hand instinctively finding its way to Crowley’s. “He always was from the very beginning but he knows now. He gave it a name.”

“When?” Crowley asked, eyes roaming over the clouds. It was a surprise, albeit a pleasant one, that Zira had come to the realisation before Anthony. _When will you catch up, little one? When will you sit still for long enough to realise it’s always been love?_

Aziraphale smiled, reliving that heady flow of warmth that had begun in the bookseller’s heart and rushed out like the flood of a burst dam. “I think it was the crepe that did it.”

“Of course it was. Birds of a feather. Imagine if all I’d had to do was feed you crepes, eh? We’d have shacked up a long time ago.” Crowley laughed, tearing his eyes away from the view to look at Aziraphale. _Heaven’s light_, he thought, finding the first flames of sunset in the angel’s eyes. _Perhaps heaven, just like home, doesn’t have to be a place._.

“Admiring the view?”

“Always.” He squeezed the angel’s hand. One, two, three. Then came the feeling he'd been dreading: a shudder of energy, of something waking up, and before he could open his mouth Aziraphale knew what was coming.

“I suppose you’re going to say we have to go, aren’t you?”

A nod, and one of those sad smiles that had broken the angel’s heart in a thousand different ways over the years. “This seems like as good a place as any to say goodbye, doesn’t it? I know we said once before that it would be the last goodbye but…one for the road, eh?”

“And when it’s time, when it’s _our_ time, how will we know?”

“Oh, you know how it is with us, angel, I have a feeling it’ll be ineffable. If I get there first I’ll put the kettle on, I promise.”

“Start as you mean to go on, eh? Goodbye for now, my love. I’ll love you forever and then for a little bit longer…but if that sneaky bookseller gets ideas above his station again you’d better give him the cold shoulder or it won’t just be eternal tea duty awaiting you in paradise.” Aziraphale smiled, leaned in for one last, lingering kiss, and then he was gone. In his place was Zira, shifting a little in his seat as if he was beginning to stir from a dream.

It was time to go, Crowley knew that; it wasn’t fair to take up any more of Anthony’s time. Still, it was getting harder and harder to cling to the self-restraint needed to say goodbye to Aziraphale, to say goodbye to the world and slip back under until it was time, finally, to cross that final bridge that lay in their path.

“Goodbye, Barnaby. You really are the best boy. Thank you for seeing something good in me. You always were my little miracle. I’ll see you soon, I hope.” He twisted in his seat, cupping the dog’s face in both hands as he punctuated each sentence with a kiss against his soft muzzle. _I am not going to cry. Too late. Well, I’m not going to cry much. Much more than I already am. This is hopeless. I’m hopeless. A hopeless, soft, crybaby demon._

As Barnaby gave his hand one last little lick and then curled up on the blanket on the backseat as if he knew their goodbyes were over, Crowley turned back and slid both hands around the steering wheel, wondered how long it would be until next time, and closed his eyes as he slipped away with one final farewell.

_Goodbye, my girl, I miss you more than a demon should be able to miss a glorified tin can on wheels, even if you are the most beautiful, brave tin can on wheels to have ever existed. I’ll find a way to get you back, I promise. Just give me a chance to get back on my feet and we’ll be together again, all of us. Keep him safe. Don’t let him go too fast, you hear?_

Anthony was still blinking in relative confusion when Zira uttered a loud snore that woke him up from the very lovely dream he’d been having about a particularly perfect slice of angel cake.

“What’s going on?” he murmured sleepily, rubbing his eyes and looking around blearily. “Why have we stopped? Is something the matter?”

“No, I-” Anthony paused, waiting for the hazy memories of the journey to sharpen in his mind. It was the strangest feeling, almost as if he hadn’t been present at all and yet there they were, parked up not ten miles away from the cottage they’d rented for the next four days. He remembered the thrill of sitting in the Bentley for the first time, the way it felt a little bit like greeting an old friend, as if his hands fit too perfectly around the curve of the steering wheel for them to be anything but. “I was just so…I was so tired, I had to pull over. Weird, isn’t it, how you can space out at the wheel? Feel like I was in a trance the whole way here.”

“I did think you were a bit quiet. You barely spoke to me, just an odd growl here and there. Thought I’d lost you for a moment.”

“Lose me?” Anthony turned to him, twirled a finger around one perfect blond curl. “Impossible, even if you tried.”

Zira smiled, reached up to catch his hand and bring it to his lips, then patted the dashboard with his other hand. “I wanted to say again, thank you for this, for wanting to share it with me.”

“There was nobody else I wanted to share it with, angel. I told you I’d take you wherever you needed to go to get the shop back on its feet, didn’t I? I thought I might as well take you in style.” Anthony gave him a proud smile, then broke off into a laugh of self-deprecation. “But only this once because it turns out I would have to walk a thousand dogs for a thousand years before I could actually afford one of these.”

“Well, we can pretend, can’t we, just for a few days?” Zira looked out across the view, marvelled at the way the dying sunlight set the world on fire. _Bentley or no Bentley, this already feels like the perfect dream, just being here with you is enough._ “After all, what harm did escaping into a fantasy ever do anybody?”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Happy Sunday, folks! Hope you've all had a lovely weekend filled with whatever you like best. Mine has consisted of Death Stranding and far too much coffee, and this afternoon has mince pies and mulled wine on the cards. Praise be for festive food and drink!
> 
> The next chapter is coming on Wednesday and you can expect Barnaby, beaches, and more Bentley funtimes (we love alliteration, don't we? :D)
> 
> Have a good few days, pals <3


	38. Dream Catch Me

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Zira opened his mouth to continue but his words were lost, buried underneath the indignant bark Barnaby let out.

**March. Primrose Cottage, St Ives.**

A new day dawned and the sun began its gentle ascent above a small cottage where a dog walker and a bookseller lay tangled up together.

Crowley stirred first, instinctively flailing one arm across to stab at his phone before he realised that there was no trill of the alarm, no low buzzing vibration telling him it was time to get up and start the day. There was only silence, save for the quiet snuffle of Zira’s deep breaths as he slept on, eyes impervious to the bright morning light that was fighting a winning battle with the bedroom’s thin curtains.

Careful not to wake the sleeping bookseller, Crowley slid out of bed and padded into the kitchen, where Barnaby was leaning heavily against a cupboard, looking pointedly from his empty food bowl to Crowley, as if he was almost too weak to go on.

“Good boy, go on then.” Crowley spooned the dog’s food into his bowl, nodding towards it and giving him a little pat on the back as he stepped over him to lean against the breakfast bar, perfectly positioned to watch the sun finish rising above the still, glittering sea that lay in the distance.

Zira had chosen the cottage himself, managing to stay patient with his new laptop for long enough to book it without needing Crowley’s guidance, had refused to let him pay a penny towards the trip. _No, Crowley, I invited you, let me treat you after everything you’ve done for me, please_. The bookseller had been firm, finally relenting to agree that Crowley could pay for petrol only but that would be it, absolutely everything else was already taken care of. It was a shake up to their usual dynamic, Zira taking control of organisation, but Crowley was happy enough to give up control and let him take the reins for once.

He’d chosen well, the dog walker thought, elbows sliding across the breakfast bar as he draped himself across the cool black granite and stretched out his back, still aching from the previous day’s long drive. It might look stylish, the Bentley, and it drove like a dream but it left something to be desired in the comfort stakes. He felt better after a good night’s sleep, less like he might slip into a dream mid-way through a sentence. The cottage was that perfect combination of an old-fashioned exterior and an interior that was both comfortable and stylish. It looked out across the long coastal path that led across the cliffs and branched down to various beaches and coves along the way. Deep green sea grass, flecked white with dried salt spray, bobbed and waved in the late winter wind, and Crowley was struck by the desire to shrug on a jacket, clip Barnaby’s lead to his collar and get out there to explore. But first, breakfast.

No sooner had the thought of food entered his head than he felt two warm arms slide around his waist and a heavy head press against his upper back. There was a satisfied sigh and then the feeling of Zira’s lips kissing a path from his shoulder blade up to the nape of his neck.

“Good morning, gorgeous,” the dog walker breathed, leaning back to meet the bookseller’s lips with his own. “Good sleep?”

“Heavenly.” Zira smiled, wondering if it was possible to fall asleep beside the one he loved and declare the night anything but. He rested his chin on Crowley’s shoulder, one hand reaching around to lazily trace the curved hemline of the t-shirt he was wearing, while the other scrolled through his phone to find the e-mail he was looking for. “Ah, here we go. These came through while we were driving down yesterday. What do you think?”

Zira passed Crowley his phone and took a step back, peeking up at his face as he waited for his reaction, wondering why he felt quite so nervous. The renovators had sent him a stream of photos of the shop’s progress and he was taken aback how much it resembled, well, a shop. The floorboards had been laid upstairs and the electricity fitted throughout, the windows downstairs had been widened (as per his last minute request) and the newly designed floor to ceiling bookshelves ran around the entirety of the shop’s walls. The back room was still looking a little sparse but upstairs was almost habitable, with only the bathroom fixtures and tiling left to be finished before it was time for the furniture to arrive. Zira had settled on everything already so there was nothing left to do but wait. And the wait, he had realised with a strange feeling of unease, was almost over.

He distracted himself from his confusingly conflicted thoughts by watching Crowley’s expression as he flicked through the photos. He looked detached, worryingly so, so perfectly impartial that it couldn’t possibly be anything other than carefully curated neutrality. _Oh no, what’s wrong? Does he hate the changes I’ve made? Should I have made the bookshelves shorter? Maybe the windows are too wide, maybe I should have left it the way it was before, what if…_

Then the dog walker’s lips curved up into a smile and he passed the phone back to Zira, leaning in to give him a kiss. “It’s looking brilliant, angel. I love what you’ve done with the windows; Luci will have a field day painting all that light, won’t they? You should get them to paint a couple of pieces to sell in the shop.”

Zira beamed proudly, felt that odd tension in his chest ebb away as Crowley gave him an enthusiastic seal of approval…and the notion of commissioning some art from Luci to sell in the shop, well, that wasn’t a bad idea at all.

“I thought we could head down to the beach and take this one for a good long walk, maybe pack up a picnic for lunch. What do you think?”

“I think,” Zira purred, as he pulled the dog walker close, “that sounds like perfection.”

***

_Calm down. You'll get the terror sweats if you're not careful._

_You don’t even know what I’m stressed about._

_Don’t I? In that case, I assume it’s something other than the fact you’re gripped with the growing sense of dread that the day Zira packs up and moves back into the shop is on the horizon. It was okay before, when the idea of him leaving was something abstract, some pin far away in the distance that was at the mercy of insurance claims and building delays, wasn’t it? But now it’s something real, something happening soon, you can’t shake the idea that everything is about to change. Again. For worse, this time. Couple that with the guilt you’re probably feeling that you should just be happy for him, that feeling resentful of his life coming back together makes you a selfish, pathetic excuse for a boyfriend…how did I do? Anywhere near the mark or am I wildly off base?_

Crowley sighed. He had been doing a lot of it since he’d excused himself to take a shower before they headed out for the day, leaving Zira to pack up some lunch and get Barnaby ready for a trek down to the beach.

He _was_ happy for Zira. The shop was coming along beautifully and the upstairs rooms were so close to complete it could only be a matter of weeks until it was time for him to move back in, which had always been the plan, of course. They both knew it was only a temporary arrangement, that Zira was simply _staying_ rather than _moving in_. He’d been having thoughts, though, in recent weeks, thoughts he’d been far too scared to voice aloud but was working up the courage to share. Thoughts that maybe Zira might want to stay a little longer, might want to think about transforming the upstairs of the shop into a stockroom, or maybe even a consultation room for those esteemed clients who, perhaps, expected a more slick set up than the cluttered back room with its threadbare armchairs that were more suited to snuggling in with hot chocolate than doing business.

It was madness, he knew that, the idea of Zira moving in permanently. He could picture the bookseller’s wide-eyed horror at the idea of jumping into such a big commitment quite so quickly. Perhaps it was well-timed, Crowley conceded, that those photos had arrived in Zira’s e-mail inbox when they had. A sobering reminder of reality was never a bad thing.

“I’m happy for him,” he said, swiping a hand through the condensation on the bathroom mirror to reveal his reflection, which didn’t look as though it believed a single word he’d uttered. He repeated the words, more forcefully that time, and stared at his own face until he believed them. “I’m happy for him. Everything will be fine. Change doesn’t have to mean the end; it can be the beginning of something even better.”

***

Crowley couldn’t remember the last time he had been by the sea. It certainly hadn’t been with Barnaby, who strained at the lead and looked back at them every few paces, whining as he urged them to pick up the pace so he could discover what lay behind all of those wild smells that were filling his senses. It had close enough to three months to the day since his accident and it was time, he had decided in his infinite canine wisdom, for his patience to be rewarded.

_I’ve been here before_. The thought arrived in Crowley’s mind hazily yet suddenly, then drifted away like a wisp of mist. It was something he couldn’t quite hold in his hands, not something he could see, exactly, but something he could sense. His feet navigated every little stone that interrupted the coastal path as easily as if they’d walked the route tens of times before, as if this couldn’t possibly be the first time he’d inhaled the salty air and trekked the path from Primrose Cottage across to the cliffs that stretched high above the wind-battered beaches.

A dream, he decided. He dreamed of the sea often enough that the crash of waves against the shoreline felt like a fond memory, just like the sound of the wind whispering through the trees was his mind’s softest comfort of all. The sea was a place he retreated to in sleep, yes, but it was the forests he found himself visiting in his dreams most of all. He smiled, wondering how many other born and bred city dwellers yearned so strongly for the peaceful solitude of nature that they escaped to it whenever the opportunity presented itself, even if it that opportunity was only in sleep. Did Zira, he wondered, have his own familiar places that he escaped to when the moon rose in the sky?

“Angel?” he mused, thinking aloud. Zira turned to glance back at him, a few paces ahead on account of Barnaby’s increasingly noisy insistence that they make it to the beach, post haste. “Do you ever feel like you’ve been somewhere before? As if you might have…I don’t know, it sounds stupid.”

“You know me, Crowley, big fan of stupid. Look at your harmonica recitals, best part of my day.” Zira smiled, they really _were_ one of the best parts of his day, even if the reason he loved them so much was because Crowley took them so seriously, would fall silent for a moment, take a deep breath in, and proceed to murder the instrument’s already borderline offensive tones.

“Thank you for almost keeping a straight face throughout that entire sentence. I nearly believed you.”

“Sorry, you _really_ are getting better. I recognised the BBC News theme when you played it so beautifully the other evening, didn’t I?”

“That’s because I was playing it _at the same time _as the TV.”

“Even so, that’s progress, isn’t it, dear? Anyway, what did you want to ask me?”

“Right, yes. Have you ever dreamed of somewhere before you’ve ever been there? This place…I know this place. When I woke up this morning it was as if we’d, I don’t know, it felt like we’d woken up here before. This path, I know it, I’ve walked it before. In the dawn, in the dusk, when only the moon and the stars light the way. Ever since we got here I can feel this overwhelming…this place makes me think of…”

“Love?” As soon as the word left the bookseller’s lips he shook his head, rolling his eyes at his own saccharine romanticism. He stopped on the path, waiting for Crowley’s reaction and looping Barnaby’s lead around his wrist, much to the dog’s absolute frustration. He hovered behind Zira, eyes trained on Crowley’s in the vain hope his master would knock some sense into the other human and explain that it was very important that they get to the source of all those smells as quickly as possible.

Love. Crowley considered the magnitude of the word as he looked out across the view. He let his eyes roam over it all: the sea, the beach, the woodland and, last of all, the sky. There was patience in the ocean, in the faint spray of white foam that coasted on top of waves that rolled over again and again with all the determination of a heart that beat in the pursuit of love, however reckless, however hopeless. There was rebellion in the sand that refused to lay still, that let itself get swept away by the waves, would follow them anywhere. In the forests there was hope, the safety to dream of better days, and in the sky there was only kindness to be found in the warmth of the sun, in the shade of the clouds when the heat was too much to bear. Patience, rebellion, hope, and kindness; Zira was right, it did feel like love, that place, as if it poured out of every space the light touched.

“Love,” he said the word aloud, let it hang between them for as long as he could, before he looked away with a smile. “That sounds about right. Perhaps it just looks so much like paradise that it can’t help but feel like a dream.”

“You’re probably on the money there.” Zira opened his mouth to continue but his words were lost, buried underneath the indignant bark Barnaby let out as he tugged at the lead strongly enough to see Zira stagger a few paces forward. “All right, all right, boy. We won’t hold you up any longer.”

“Don’t let him push you around,” Crowley warned, heavy implication in his voice that he had once been foolish enough to make the same mistake. “He already thinks he’s in charge.”

“Well, he’s not wrong, is he?” The bookseller trailed off, gestured down to the dog who was clawing his way down the path ahead of them, leaving the two humans tearing along behind him.

***

It had been something of a relief for Crowley to stand there atop the cliffs and speak about the way that place made him feel, as though it was somewhere familiar, somewhere they’d been to before. Zira had had the same feeling of nostalgia since they’d unlocked the door to the cottage and stepped inside the night before. He had made a beeline for the bedroom, only realising his own unconscious awareness of the cottage’s layout was strange after he sank down on the edge of the bed and ruminated on the fact Crowley had known which key matched the front door, despite the fact there were seven options on the keyring they’d been given in reception.

Luck, that was it, or perhaps coincidence. After all, what other option was there? That both he and Crowley had visited the cottage in previous years and had forgotten their respective trips entirely? No, that was far too much mental legwork to take on after such a long drive, and so the coincidences had been relegated to a dusty corner in the back of his mind, along with long division and knowledge of any music released after 1950.

While he refused to consider the inordinate notion that they actually _had_ visited the cottage before, it certainly was a place brimming over with emotion, as if the cliffs themselves breathed passion into the air. It was, Zira realised, the perfect place in which to ruminate on that most terrifying of realisations: that he was unmistakably, undoubtedly, unequivocally in love with Crowley.

Though outwardly he had spent a great many years brushing off the notion of trusting another person with the truth of who he was, had insisted that he was _perfectly capable _of navigating life on his own, Zira had quietly yearned for that most elusive of connections: the feeling of _something_ at first sight. He had never believed in love at first sight; attraction, yes, infatuation, sure, but love? No. Love took time. That magnetic spark at first glance was just a seed, a kernel that could be nurtured into something boundless, given patience and the right conditions and a little bit of headlong determination. It could, though, wither away as quickly as it bloomed, curl back into itself if the conditions weren’t quite right; it could flare brightly enough that it was easy to mistake it for the real thing but then, just as easily, it could burn away.

What he had felt on the first night that he and Crowley had met had felt a lot like something blooming, something springing to life with a sudden unfurling of leaves and petals. And since that night it had only flowered more beautifully every day until it was impossible to call it anything other than exactly what it was: love. Fervent, glorious, inevitable love.

If Zira was soul-baringly honest, now he _had_ love it was almost too much to bear at times. The weight of it was terrifying, as if he’d been trusted with something so precious and unknowable that holding it too tightly would crush the air from its lungs and leave it twisted and breathless, but that not cradling it close enough would leave it crashing to the ground, neglected and hollow. It would catch him off guard sometimes and then he would feel it and remember that, yes, he had let it in, he had given it a name. It could be something as simple as the dawn sun leaving golden streaks on Crowley’s skin as he slept, body curled tightly against Zira’s chest, or sometimes the bookseller would look up and find Crowley smiling at him, would find something in that soft expression that said _I see you, you know, exactly as you are, and that’s all I ever want you to be._

“Stop it,” Crowley hissed, shaking his head as Barnaby attempted to break into a run the second his paws hit the sand. He’d never felt sand between his toes, after all, and he was desperate to discover what other fascinating secrets this wild stretch of sand and sea and sky might hold.

Climbing over the last rocky step and joining them on the beach, Zira took Crowley’s free hand and gave it a little squeeze. “Are you okay?”

“Fine.” He sighed tightly, gathering up Barnaby’s lead in his hand until the dog couldn’t stray any further than a few feet away from them.

They walked on, the three of them, feet sinking lightly into the damp sand, still dark from a night spent safe beneath the water. Above them, three solitary gulls circled the cliffs, crying out every few moments, and the wind picked up as they walked further out across the beach and the cliffs fell away into the background. It was a sharp sting against the skin, something that felt as though it could chill and burn at the same time, and Zira wrapped his scarf more tightly around his face, until the fabric came to rest just below his bottom lip. The beach itself was quiet enough, given the grey clouds and the time of day, but there was a cluster of four dogs running together in the shallows, one owner or another throwing a well-worn tennis ball down the length of the beach for the dogs to chase after.

Barnaby let out a quiet whine of desperation, his eyes following the dogs as they cantered back and forth, sprays of water flying up in their wake as they chased the ball, and then each other. Zira opened his mouth to speak, then looked up at Crowley’s face and fell silent. Jaw clenched, eyes resolutely ignoring the four dogs Barnaby was fixated on, he walked on in the opposite direction, as if him pretending the dogs didn’t exist would be enough to convince Barnaby that perhaps they were all a figment of his imagination.

“Not today, boy.” When he spoke again his voice was softer and there was something pleading in the words as he reached down to stroke Barnaby’s ear.

“He’ll be okay,” Zira offered, free hand gesturing down to the dog, who was walking so perfectly it was as if he was determined to prove exactly how okay he would be if he was allowed to go and play with the others. “They did say to you, didn’t they, that three months would be…”

“Don’t, Zira.”

The bookseller nodded, smiling weakly down at Barnaby as they strode on away from the dogs. _Sorry, boy, I tried._

Crowley swallowed tightly, eyes fixed on the stretch of sand ahead as he tried to ignore the clench of guilt in his chest. He knew Barnaby was ready to be let off the lead, to run and play and tease other dogs as he was so fond of doing, knew he’d been ready for a few days now, if he was honest. _But what if something happens? What if I misjudge it and he hurts himself even more? He’s safe here, with me, by my side where I can make sure nothing hurts him_.

Another sound then, a desolate whimper as Barnaby stole one final glance at the dogs before they disappeared behind a large rock and he could no longer see that group of potential friends. Crowley paused, closing his eyes for a moment and remembering that sweet dog, Angel, who Barnaby had such a fixation with. There was always such a sadness to him, that ambling ball of fluff with the hopeful eyes and the curls that made him look a little like an overgrown teddybear. He would bound towards Barnaby, on the odd occasion when he was allowed to roam free, but no sooner had they begun to play than there would be a sharp click of the tongue, a bellow of his name and he would stop in his tracks, return to his mistress’ side and obediently wait for his lead to be clipped back on.

_That’s not what I want for you_, Crowley thought, sighing as he leaned down and unclipped Barnaby’s lead. Though fear had begun to pound in his heart before Barnaby had even taken a single step, he pushed it away and gave the dog a nod. “Go on then, be good.”

Shivering in anticipation from head to haunches, Barnaby trotted forward a couple of paces and then turned back, panting happily up at Crowley as he realised that, finally, his patience had paid off. In a flash he was gone, tearing across the beach towards the other dogs and barking frantically as he flew into the distance, sand flying up behind him as he picked up speed.

Crowley gripped Zira’s hand like a lifeline, the two of them pacing along behind and watching as the big black dog hurtled up to the group and began the customary cycle of sniffing, barking and nudging each dog in turn until they accepted him into the pack. He barrelled into the water without a shred of fear, jumping back and barking excitedly as the chilly waves washed against his legs, reaching down to bite at the foam as it rolled against him. And as he ran after the ball, shoulder to shoulder with the new friends he had made through nothing other than his canine enthusiasm for life, he would look back over his shoulder at Crowley every so often, as if he was saying _look, look at me, are you watching? Did you see me catch the ball? Have you smelled this stuff? Hey, hey watch me get the ball again!_

“He is such a good boy,” Zira murmured, sliding an arm around Crowley’s waist and resting his head against his shoulder.

“He’s the best boy.” Crowley smiled, watching as Barnaby tossed the ball into the air with all the unfathomable glee of a dog reunited with freedom. “They all are.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey folks, happiest of hump days to you all! How is your week going so far? Let me know what you've been up to, you know how nosy I am :D.
> 
> Hope you enjoyed today's chapter and Barnaby's glorious return to befriending every dog in sight. That sweet boy 😭. Next chapter is coming on Saturday and involves paddling and sunsets and a chapter song I've been waiting to use for months.
> 
> <3


	39. Hymn

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “Is there a precise day, do you think, when we lose those silly little joys?”

**March. Porthkerris Cove, Cornwall** ****

“There’s no such thing as _after_, angel. Not in the way we’re supposed to believe, anyway.”

“Is that really what you think?”

“Yeah. It is.” Crowley nodded, picked up a handful of sand and let it flow through his fingers. Grains in an hourglass. “Paradise, life after death, it’s too abstract. It’s too rooted in blind faith, the promise of eternal happiness. It gives you an excuse, doesn’t it, to be afraid? To say you’d better not take that risk, just in case it’s the _wrong_ decision. No, you have to make paradise while you can, even if it’s not what you imagined, in case that’s all there is. Best to get it right first time, you know? Who knows if there’s a second chance? When I go, I mean, when it’s my time, when my life flashes before my eyes I want it to be the best show I’ve ever seen. When I close my eyes for the last time I want to know I wrung out every bit of life I could. _That’s_ how you beat the system.”

“Careful, Crowley, that all sounds alarmingly logical.” Zira gave a little glance up towards the sky, eyed the faraway grey clouds warily, unsure why he felt the need to think a silent apology on Crowley’s behalf.

“Too many hoops to jump through.” Crowley shrugged, polishing off a sausage roll in two big bites. “If I have to prove myself with a lifetime of restraint, well, I don’t think I’d fit in very well in that sort of place anyway.”

Zira looked across at him, watching as he shovelled in another sausage roll with reckless abandon. _Yes, _he thought, _I’m not sure a place like that could contain you either._

Between them lay a picnic, if a box of sausage rolls, orange juice, and a Victoria sandwich constituted such a lofty title. Zira had reasoned it was the mood that maketh the picnic and the mood was one of relaxed contemplation. After a morning spent chaperoning Barnaby’s impromptu playdate with a new group of canine companions, they’d retired to a quiet corner of the beach to let him catch his breath in the shade of the rocky overhang of the cliffs above. He was sprawled on the blanket in front of them, panting heavily with sand on his tongue, crying at regular intervals because nobody had thought to give him a sausage roll.

“You’ve had a treat,” Crowley explained, cursing himself when the dog’s eyes pricked up at the utterance of the T-word. He glared at Zira, who looked away innocently. “Well, you’ve had four treats because some of us don’t know how to say no.”

“Look at him.” Zira reached out and stroked Barnaby’s snout with one finger. “How could you say no to that face?”

“Easily.” Crowley rummaged around in the box until he pulled the last sausage roll free, rolled his eyes as Barnaby crept forward and let out a plaintive whine of desperation. He turned to Zira to reinforce just how easy it was to say no when he found the bookseller’s eyes darting from the empty box to the sausage roll in Crowley’s hand, a near identical look of heartbreak on his face. _Not you too, I can’t say no to you, not with those Disney character eyes of perfect blue, you sneaky angel_. He sighed, broke the snack in half and gave one half to Zira, tossing the other into Barnaby’s waiting mouth. “Might have the concept of paradise cracked but I’ll never learn to buy enough sausage rolls, will I?”

Zira gave Barnaby a conspiratorial nod of a good job well done. “Portion control _is_ one of life’s eternal mysteries.”

***

“Do you remember how it feels to stand in the sea with the waves against your legs?” Zira asked, one hand holding his book closed around his index finger, which served as a makeshift bookmark, while the other shielded his eyes from the late-afternoon sun. “I remember always going for a paddle when I was at the coast. Is there a precise day, do you think, when we lose those silly little joys, or is it a gradual hardening into responsibility, into duty?”

Crowley had been laying next to him with his eyes closed, trying to isolate every individual sound that spilled out around them: the waves, the wind, the birds, the breathy sigh of Zira’s contentment when he read a perfectly lovely sentence in his book. When Zira spoke he heard his words, yes, but also a trace of wistfulness, regret for all those silly little joys of years gone by. He let his head fall to the side, eyes flicking over the bookseller’s face as he considered the layers of complexity that were waiting to be unpicked. _This is the man who I’ve caught adding cream to a hot chocolate. Not whipped cream. Clotted cream. If even he feels as though he’s had to let life’s little glimmers of happiness fall by the wayside then what hope is there for the rest of us?_

“Come on,” Crowley said, sitting up with ease and offering Zira a hand. “Let’s go.”

“Where?” Zira asked, holding onto Crowley’s hand for dear life as he hauled himself up. He paused to glare accusingly at the empty box of sausage rolls, then clambered to his feet and dusted the sand off of his jacket.

“Let’s do it, let’s go paddling.” Crowley knelt down, rolling his jeans up in tight folds until they were mid-calf and it was apparent no grip strength in the world was going to allow them to be tugged any higher. Grabbing Barnaby’s lead in one hand and reaching for Zira’s with the other, he started down towards the water, dragging the reluctant bookseller behind him, ignoring Zira’s protests about not wanting to get his socks wet.

Five minutes and a pair of abandoned socks later, the two of them stood side by side in the shallows, feet sinking into the sand as the waves swelled against their shins. Behind them, Barnaby was hugging the shoreline, sniffing out shells and occasionally barking when he came across something he deemed noteworthy. In front of them lay only the sea, the unending stretch of midnight blue that deepened as it approached the horizon. Zira took a step forward, water sloshing against his legs as he waded out until he was knee deep. There was a gentle rocking of the waves against his skin but he let himself drift to and fro with the rhythm. There was no need to fight it. Crowley followed him, taking his hand as they stood in silence for a moment, eyes tracing the outline of clouds as they streaked past the sun, who had just begun her slow descent. It would be time soon enough to trade places with the moon. Always so close, always just out of reach.

“What would happen, I wonder, if we started swimming and didn’t look back?” Zira’s voice was a soft meditation, words lifted and whisked away by the wind as he spoke them. He wasn’t speaking to Crowley, not really, not at first, but then he smiled as he asked one of those rhetorical questions the two of them were so fond of trading back and forth. “How far would we get?”

“Paradise,” Crowley said, then breathed out a laugh. “Or Wales.”

“Who says they’re not the same thing?”

“Well, no one knows how to sculpt a hill like the Welsh, I suppose.”

Zira fell quiet then, lips set in a little smile as he looked out across the water again. All that freedom, where would one even begin? “I mean it, though, Crowley. Well, not _exactly_, but have you ever thought about what would happen if you just…left one day, went off somewhere and never looked back?”

“Of course I have. There’s nothing stopping you, you know, from packing up and starting again. You’re not bound to live your life in one place for eternity.” It was part of his ethos of living life free from the shackles of regret, the promise he had always made himself that he would never become trapped in one place, ensnared in a life of safe mediocrity. It had been the driving force behind his decision to strike out on his own, forge his own career in a world that was obsessed with routine and order and _climbing the ladder_. He had never wanted to leave, to run off into the night and never look back, but knowing he had the choice was enough. It was the only way not to suffocate, he thought sometimes. “If you wanted to, angel, you could pack up a bag of books, a few boxes of biscuits to keep you going, and steal away into the ether. You could start a brand new life, shake things up, become a librarian.”

“I’m not sure I’d do all that well on my own. Useless at cooking eggs, for a start, aren’t I? No, I think perhaps you’d better come with me. We could go off together.”

“Go off together.” Crowley repeated the words with quiet certainty, as if it was a promise, should it ever come to that, felt a flicker of wounded sadness somewhere deep inside that he didn’t have the inclination to try and comprehend. There was no space in that moment for sadness, only the ocean and the sky, of Zira’s thumb tracing a pattern on his skin as the bookseller gripped his hand. “Life’s silly little joys.”

“Something of an anchor, aren’t they? To an easier time.”

They stood there for a while longer, until the waves lapped gently above their knees and Crowley looked down to find his rolled up jeans inky black under the water.

“Don’t want to get cut off by the tide,” Zira said, following his gaze downward.

“No, wouldn’t want to accidentally end up having an adventure, would we?” Crowley leaned in for a kiss then pulled back, laughing, as they turned to wade back to the shore. “If we stay any longer we might end up going off together, never looking back.”

***

There was something reassuring in sunsets, Zira thought, as he watched the sun hang low in the sky through the Bentley’s windscreen. Next to him, Crowley blinked behind dark glasses and shifted higher in the seat to avoid the red bloom of the sun’s last flare of colour before night set in.

Sunsets were an ending, a daily reminder of an impending blank slate. A new opportunity coming in a matter of hours, the sins of the previous day washed clean. It was a rebirth, and a herald of honesty. They had said it before, the two of them, that it was only under the stars they felt brave enough to say everything that hung unsaid under the glare of daylight. The moon, that eternal keeper of secrets, looked away as promises and confessions were breathed into the night, and who had the strength to look upon the stars and not be reminded of their own absolute insignificance? Out of insignificance comes bravery, after all. _What does it matter? What does it matter if I’m honest? I’m nothing at all, not compared to the stars and the moon. What could I do, who could I be, if only I was honest?_

It had felt like freefall, being honest with Crowley under the cover of darkness, the first time, and the second, and even the third. In his flat on the night of the flood, in the bookshop, caught up in the sheets after that night when Putrified Pina Coladas had given them the last shred of courage they’d needed. To leave yourself exposed like he had, for somebody so resolutely determined to stay within the confines of their comfort zone, it was nothing less than a horror. W_hat if he doesn’t feel the same? What if he laughs at me? What if I’m nothing more than the uptight man he’s building a website for as a favour to a friend who asked him to spend some time with that lonely man from Soho_? Zira smiled, reminiscing about the questions that had thundered through his brain before, during, and after the two of them had spent any time together in those early days. It had been too much to comprehend, that Crowley was doing anything other than entertaining his presence out of some sort of duty to Tracy, or boredom, perhaps, as if he might just be a plaything. _And yet._ Zira curled a hand around his knee, felt the damp fabric of his jeans against his palm. _Here we are._

He thought back to that minimal existence he had lived for so long, what Raphael had called a little life. The words had stung every time. He’d told himself the sting was offence at the implication that Raphael knew more about his own happiness than he did, and he had believed it, almost. It was inescapable though, that honesty, buried under layers of pretence: _I don’t want a little life but I’m too afraid to have anything else._

It _had_ been a little life; Raphael had been right, in his own brashly honest way. Until that day when the world had shifted and luck had brought the person into his life who had been expanding his world every day since. He sighed, marvelling at how Crowley could make everything seem like the wildest adventure, even paddling knee deep into a calm sea. To be with Crowley was for his little life to transform into a galaxy, something expanding in all directions, something infinite.

“I used to think the whole world was against me, you know?” Zira murmured, eyes trained ahead on that burst of fire in the sky. One last confession to signal the end of the day. _One for the road, as Crowley would say_. “On my own, against everything else.”

He felt fingers slide through his, cold from the sea air, grains of sand caught between their palms. “There’s two of us now. Our own side.”

“Our own side.” Zira smiled, closing his eyes to relish the words all the more. A hand to hold in the worst times, a pair of lips to find in the dark, a heart for yours to beat beside day and night, when life was kind, or when it was cruel. “It wasn’t the world that was against me, though, was it? The more of it I let in and the more I trust it won’t hurt me…look at all the things I’ve done since I stopped being afraid. I’ve befriended _groupies_, for heaven’s sake.”

“_Not_ groupies,” Crowley hissed, then shook his head with a little click of his tongue. “Sorry, carry on, angel.”

“I’m just grateful for everything that’s happened these last months, that’s all. It’s been fun. I can’t remember the last time I would have described anything about my life as fun. My life was safe before, all of it, as if I existed in a vacuum. Now, here, with you, it’s like there's stardust in the air and every step I take it makes me...I don't know, fearless. Sorry, I know I'm veering into whimsical bookseller territory.”

A laugh, loud and free, and then Crowley’s fingers squeezing his thigh before he moved to change gear. “What am I here for if not whimsical bookseller territory?”

He fell silent then, waiting for Zira to continue. It wasn’t often the bookseller spoke so candidly about, well, anything, let alone their relationship, and Crowley was content to sit back and soak up his words. Zira approached speech as he did everything else in life, with self-restraint and caution, turning over each possible avenue in his mind before committing to the one that felt right. Crowley smiled as he stumbled over his words, as his thoughts poured out faster than he could articulate them. With every stutter, every sentence that trailed off, every thought that escaped half-formed and raw, Zira Fell shed another layer until there he was, perfect and unafraid.

“Even before we were _this_, I always felt safe with you, Crowley. Why do you think I called you when the shop burned down? When everything else was gone and I needed something safe, something I could call a home…of course it was you, it always was. It was all of you, in your own different ways, who got me here. Your family. They didn’t need to know who I was before, who I wanted to be, they knew me and that was enough. I didn’t need to be obedient or sharp or confident, or anything else I tried to be before. They welcomed me in, all of you did. You helped me become more myself and I don’t think any of you even realise what you did for me.”

“It’s yours too, angel. The family; Mick, the guys. You're a part of it now, for as long as you want to be. Like recognises like, remember?”

_Like recognises like_. Zira smiled, remembering the swell of hope he’d felt when he heard Crowley say those words so many months before, in the wake of their first moonlit confessions. He had felt it too, of course, the very first moment he’d laid eyes on Crowley, had seen the the way loneliness pulled at him, tugged him down until he was a sad outline hunched over a table, alone, waiting._ I love you, the softness you bury underneath those sharp angles, that laugh so sudden and loud it’s like you want the world to hear how happy you are, everything you are, the neat lines and the messy scrawl, all of it. I love you, and I’ll tell you, soon enough, I swear. I just want to hold onto it for a little while longer._

In the driver's seat, though it had taken him a little longer to give the feeling a name, Crowley was coming to his own startling, yet entirely inevitable, realisation.

As they crested the top of a hill and everything the light touched was bathed in warmth, Crowley stole a glance at Zira and heard himself breathe a sigh of utter longing as the golden light painted the bookseller’s face, tugging out the highlights until he could be glowing, something beautiful set on fire.

He thought about paradise, about life’s silly little joys that Zira had spoken of so wistfully, of the way happiness could be found in the tiniest of spaces; in watching the sunset’s glow against Zira’s skin, in hearing the bookseller hum entirely the wrong tune but loving the song playing on the radio anyway, in the way he closed his eyes and let one hand drift to the open window, a smile on his face as the wind blew the last grains of sand from his knuckles.

_I don’t want you to leave. I know it's not the end but I don't want this to change. I want to keep on waking up beside you the next morning, and the next, and the next. I want to keep pretending I prefer my eggs a little overdone anyway, that creamy eggs and golden toast has been done to death, that I like the way you leave a little bit of shell in for bonus texture. I love falling asleep knowing you’ll still be there when I wake up, I love everything we’ve built together, I love your…everything, I love everything about you._

_I love you, angel._

_Oh._

_Of course I do._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Happy Saturday angels and demons! What have you all been up to this week?
> 
> Hope you enjoyed chapter two of the Cornish road trip; we have three chapters left until it's back to London and next up is the auction, coming on Tuesday! How will Crowley get on playing the role of a very sensible assistant in a very serious auction? Place your bets.
> 
> <3


	40. What a Way to Make a Living

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “It’s not the Met Gala, Crowley, honestly.”

**March. Primrose Cottage, St Ives.**

“Just remember the limits I’ve given you, okay? The hammer price isn’t the final price, don’t forget. I got stung with that at my first auction.”

“Yes, angel, hammer price, I know.”

“But if you do see something that really takes your fancy feel free to go off-list, we don’t want anything too over the top size-wise so steer clear of furniture, though heaven knows a piece of my heart belongs to at least one armchair at every auction. Oh, I still have dreams about that oxblood velvet… Sorry, getting a little off track.” Zira shook his head then, casting out the memory of that wingback chair that he’d always regretted leaving behind. _I think of you, you sweet armchair, more than I care to admit. We would have had such wonderful nights by the fire together, oh, the biscuit crumbs you would have accumulated_. “Right, where was I? Oh, yes, don’t get tempted by furniture, unless you happen to stumble across anything velvet and wingback, in which case, come and get me, pronto. Best just stick to the list, perhaps. Now, I’ll meet you for lunch and then we can head into the main hall together for the afternoon session. There are a few big lots I have my eye on so…Crowley, are you even listening to me?”

“Yeah, don’t forget to keep an eye on the phone bidders, don’t give anything away, don’t let all the posh wankers in tweed get to me, something about velvet, I _do_ listen to you.”

In the bedroom, Zira frowned at the crack in the bathroom door that offered a glimpse of Crowley strolling past every few moments. He’d been in there getting ready for what felt like a suspicious amount of time and Zira had heard him hiss a colourful slew of expletives more than once. _What is he doing in there?_

“It’s not the Met Gala, Crowley, honestly.”

“Trust me, I’m taking my role as Z Fell and Co.’s assistant buyer extremely seriously.” Crowley poked his head around the door for a moment before disappearing back inside. A second later came the clatter of a bottle falling into the sink. “Bloody sweaty palms!”

With a sigh, Zira turned back to the catalogue he had carefully highlighted for Crowley, marking out each of the lots he was tasked with bidding on during the morning session, which was split across three different auction rooms. Ordinarily, a buyer might bring two or three assistants with them to cover an auction of that size but Zira was, or had been up until that day, a one man show, and had grown used to navigating such events on his own. With Crowley stepping in as his assistant for the day, it meant he could have a second pair of eyes on the floor and he had a very full day planned for both of them. While he felt a little guilty throwing Crowley into the deep end at his very first auction, he was sure the dog walker would take to it like a duck to water. _All that frantic energy will lend itself to bidding very well, I’m sure_, he thought to himself, as he circled lot 324, a first UK edition of Charles Fort’s Lo!, jotting down _Maximum bid: £440_ next to it.

It was one of his favourite parts of the job, poring over auction catalogues and circling those lots he was most interested in acquiring. It was a little like window shopping at that stage, pulling out all the gems that caught his attention and dreaming of coming away with each and every one of them carefully boxed up and ready to be slipped onto the shelves. It never quite worked like that in reality, though, not when a hundred other booksellers were after the very same titles. Still, he had high hopes for the auction that day now there were two of them on his team. Perhaps Crowley would have a natural proclivity for bidding, for spotting a diamond in the rough. _Maybe when we get back_, Zira thought, _I can talk to him about helping me more often, I could do with an extra pair of hands what with the relaunch coming up and… Steady on, don’t get ahead of yourself, let’s just see how today goes first._

“It can be a tad competitive once you’re inside but don’t feel as though you have to win every lot I’ve highlighted for you, it’s just the way it goes sometimes, all right? Crowley? I _knew_ you weren’t listening to me, what are you doing in there?”

There was a growl of frustration, a heavy sigh, and then Crowley nudged the door open with his knee, storming through with both hands gripping the tie that was hanging loosely around his neck. “Buy low, sell high, I heard you. Struggling a bit with this tie, angel, can you help me? What…what are you looking at?”

“I…er…” Zira trailed off, swallowing a gulp and hooking one finger into his shirt collar to tug it free from his neck. He’d noticed one of Franco’s black suit carriers hanging in the cottage’s wardrobe but hadn’t given it too much thought at the time. That was until Crowley stood before him that morning, dressed in a black suit so closely cut it was nothing short of miraculous. A blood red shirt peeked out from above the black waistcoat and, as something deep in the pit of his stomach clenched within an inch of its life, Zira Fell found himself incapable of doing anything other than what he did very best: stare at Crowley and dither. “You, well, you, er…went for the waistcoat as well then?”

“Oh, right, yeah, thought it looked more _professional_.” Crowley pulled one side of the jacket open to show off the cut of the waistcoat, little gold buttons gleaming like snake eyes under the lights, while his other hand reached up to rake his hair back from his forehead.

Zira hadn’t realised he was biting his lip until he felt a sharp flare of pain, nor had he realised both fists were balled in the fabric of his trousers until he looked down into his lap. “Professional, yes. Very…professional. Let’s, er, let’s see the back then. Franco does such beautiful work with back seams.”

Furrowing his brow but always happy to comply, Crowley turned slowly around to give Zira a spectacular view of his jacket’s intricate back seams Franco had worked on so diligently, blissfully unaware that Zira’s eyes were focused firmly on the _intimate_ cut of his trousers.

“Yes,” Zira said throatily, reverently, as he cleared his throat with a breathy cough. He tore his eyes away, eventually, lest the day’s trip to the auction be abandoned in favour of tearing the suit from Crowley’s body piece by piece. “Top notch. Really. Must send my, er, gratitude to old Franco.”

“All that time with the tape measure paid off, did it?” Crowley asked, smoothing down the front of his jacket as he turned back to face Zira.

“I suppose it did.” The bookseller pursed his lips begrudgingly, then stood up and passed Crowley one of the two catalogues he was holding, before getting to work on his tie. “Now, this one’s yours. Everything in there is marked up and I’ve folded down the pages you need to pay attention to. The more over the top my use of exclamation marks, the more I’m happy for you to go full tilt with the bidding. My card will be on file with them when I register so all they need to do is scan your lanyard when we check in. I’ve already booked a courier service to deliver anything bulky next week so you don’t need to do anything other than confirm any winning bids at the end of each lot. Most importantly, try and have fun, it can get a bit…hectic, but I have a feeling you’ll enjoy yourself.”

“Oh, how could I not, angel? Trusted with the future of your business, no pressure at all.” Crowley laughed, flicking idly through the catalogue to see just how much faith the bookseller had in his fledgling book-buying abilities. He swallowed nervously at the realisation that there were more folded down pages than unfolded. “Do you really think, er, I mean, circled quite a few bits and bobs, haven’t you?”

“Just a handful of things that piqued my interest.” Zira shrugged, waving Crowley’s concern away with one hand as he flicked loosely through his own catalogue, which seemed to have notes and uncharacteristically violent exclamation marks carved onto each and every page. “Sink or swim, Crowley, that’s the auction life.”

The dog walker raised both eyebrows, remembering just how ruthless Zira had been in the few seconds he’d seen him in action back at the book sale in Tadfield, then slipped the catalogue into the black leather satchel he slung across his body. “_Right_.”

***

“Can you imagine living there?” Crowley asked, wrinkling his nose in distaste as he pointed to the sprawling estate that was perched atop St Michael’s Mount, the elusive island that was connected to the mainland by a cobbled causeway that was only revealed when the tide retreated. “No neighbours, all that silence, I think it would drive me mad.”

Next to him, Zira sighed wistfully as he took in all that glorious seclusion. “Oh, I rather think I could get used to the peace and quiet. Think of the library I could set up, space for a wheely ladder and everything.”

“A wheely ladder.” Crowley repeated with a smile as he glanced down at the bookseller beside him, who practically had heart eyes at the thought. “So that’s all it takes to please you, eh?”

“That’s all it takes to please any literary lover, I think. Library, wheely ladder, absolute solitude in which to read; sounds blissful, doesn’t it?”

“Hmm.” Crowley was unconvinced but, still, he was looking forward to spending the day immersing himself in Zira’s world. He had to admit, while the imposing castle-like building on top of the Mount wasn’t his idea of the perfect retirement location, it did hold a certain mysterious allure.

“_Walk_ across? Like a mule on its way to market? They must be having a bloody laugh! Prepare yourselves, boys, we’re not in Chelsea any more.”

A plummy voice boomed out in disdain and Crowley and Zira turned to locate the source of the incredulous cry. Behind them, Henry, the ruddy-faced antique dealer who had faced off against Zira in Tadfield, was gesturing to the exposed causeway in disbelief, as if the notion of using his feet to travel anywhere was a ghastly idea, indeed.

Crowley rolled his eyes, turning back towards the Mount and hoping their presence would go unnoticed. Zira, however, emboldened by a coil of energy that always accompanied auction days, raised his hand in a wave and gave Henry a sarcastic little grin. “Good day, Henry! What a pleasure to see you here.”

“Oh, if it isn’t Zira Fell. How the devil are you, old chap?” Henry ambled over towards them with all the grace and energy of an elderly basset hound, clapping a meaty hand against Zira’s shoulder before turning to look Crowley briskly up and down. “Changed out of your driving gear, have you? Chauffeur _and_ courier in one package; trying times in Soho, I see.”

“Now, now, Henry, not trying to poach my assistant buyer, are you?” Zira chuckled lightly, gave Henry a satisfied smile as he nodded towards Crowley’s rented car that was parked up beside them, looking rather impressive indeed. “We’ve had to splurge on the estate’s courier service today, I’m afraid. If today’s anything like the windfall we had in Tadfield I’m not sure we’ll be able to fit everything into the Bentley. You know how it is, vintage cars and their limited boot space.”

Crowley remained silent, merely ran a hand across the Bentley’s pristine bonnet and flashed Henry a little wink, before leaning into Zira as the bookseller planted a kiss against the corner of his mouth.

Bluster. That was the only word that summed up the puff of frustration that rolled out from Henry’s thick throat, straining as it was against the confines of his moss green shirt. He muttered something under his breath that both bookseller and bookseller’s handsomely-dressed assistant assumed was insulting and then stalked past them, shouting over his shoulder for his two unfortunate assistant buyers to _bloody hurry up and stop dilly dallying._

As Henry took his first tentative step onto the damp causeway, Zira couldn’t help but hold both hands around his mouth to amplify his parting words. “See you inside, Henry, may the best man prevail!”

Crowley turned to Zira, hands on his hips as he gave him a look of mock-concern. “Have you just turned a light-hearted day at the auction house into the war of the book buyers?”

“You know, Crowley, I rather think I have.” Zira gave him a firm nod, watching Henry’s retreating back with a smile of anticipation on his face. He glanced towards the Mount. “Care to follow me to the battle ground?”

Crowley laughed, peeling himself away from the Bentley and closing the gap between the two of them in three long, lazy strides. “Haven’t we been over this? I’d follow you anywhere.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And, lo, the war of the book-buyers begins! If you'll be so kind as to join me on Friday for the next chapter we'll see how Crowley gets on as Zira's rather enthusiastic assistant for the day.
> 
> I hope you're all having a delightful week and thank you for all your lovely words on the last two chapters - you made me shed a little tear, as per usual 😭 but what's new, eh? You're all incredibly sweet to me and I can't tell you how much I appreciate it.
> 
> Oh, and if anyone's curious about what St Michael's Mount and the causeway looks like, [here you go](https://i2-prod.cornwalllive.com/news/cornwall-news/article506669.ece/ALTERNATES/s1227b/St-Michaels-Mount-2.jpg).
> 
> <3


	41. Two Tribes

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “So, what do you think of book buying life? Electrifying, isn’t it? No high like it. God, I’ve missed it.”

**March. St Michael’s Mount, Cornwall.**

“Two hundred and ten pounds for lot 28, do we have any last bids? Going once…”

_Paddle!_

_No, I’m not going to paddle. It’s not even called that, it’s called bidding. I think. I’m sure ‘paddling’ isn’t a thing. Anyway, it’s already forty quid more than the limit Zira gave me._

_Sod the limit! He put two exclamation marks next to it. Paddle!_

Though the exchange currently taking place in his mind was getting livelier with every lot, Crowley kept his expression neutral as he sat on the end of a row in the little auction room and did his best not to disgrace Z. Fell and Co.’s good name.

As it turned out, the hardest part of attending an auction wasn’t keeping control of spending or deciding which lots were worth taking a risk on but fighting not to dissolve into hysterical laughter at the pompous Britishness pervading every action in the room. Whether it was the little eccentric flourish the auctioneer performed before banging the gavel to signal an item had been sold, or the overwhelming passive aggressive cloud of grumpiness that surged from the rows of seats when a hotly tipped item was finally won after a tense bidding war, it didn’t matter, Crowley found every inch of the auction process both surreal and hilarious in equal measure.

He loved the chaos of the bidding process: the way particularly enthusiastic dealers would all but dislocate a shoulder in their haste to ensure their counter bid wouldn't go unnoticed, or the way those calm, restrained old hats would merely flick their paddle upward for a heartbeat before resting it safely against their knees until it was time to quietly bid again. It was the done thing, he’d quickly realised, to keep your paddle firmly horizontal and out of sight to ensure an erroneous bid wasn’t placed. The morning had been prefaced with a firm reminder that all bids were final and legally binding and that accidental bids would not be disregarded. Crowley had assumed it was a redundant statement, given that the combined years of experience in the room must have teetered into the millennia, until he heard the words of warning met with a series of grim murmurs of agreement and regret. _I wonder_, he’d thought to himself, _what’s the most ridiculous thing somebody’s accidentally won and been legally obliged to take ownership of?_

After they’d registered and Zira had bid him goodbye until lunch, Crowley had amused himself by pottering around the viewing room, taking a look at the goods on offer and circling a couple of lots in his copy of the auction catalogue that had caught his eye. He was the first to admit that he knew next to nothing about the rare book market but, he argued, there was no reason that had to be to his detriment. After all, his method of selecting books based on his three important criteria (the cover, the title, the _mood_ conjured up when he made up the possible plot line without reading the blurb) couldn’t be that different from any number of people who might wander into the shop for a browse, could it?

He’d been making his way through the rows of books, leaning close and nodding wisely every few moments, for no reason other than it was what everybody else in the vicinity was doing, when he’d laid eyes on a Rockwell Kent illustrated copy of Voltaire’s Candide and everything in his head had devolved into frantic wailing.

_Is that… Oi, drive, zoom in on that one over there, cream cloth cover. Now._

_First of all, I’ve already heard one chauffeur joke today and that was one too many. Second of all, I’m not a camera, I can’t zoom anywhere._

_Just let me have a closer look at the bloody book, idiot._

Crowley had furrowed his brow, which had absolutely no impact on the voice in his mind as he wasn’t standing in front of a mirror. _Since when did my nethers have such strong opinions on fiction? _he’d wondered, though the thought had quickly died in his mind when he got a better look at the book and a memory reared its head.

Candide. Of _course_. That was why he’d felt so drawn to it. It was the book Zira had lamented losing in the fire, a copy Raphael had lent him that he hadn’t been able to rescue. He was sure the version he was looking at was wildly rarer and more valuable than the copy that had been lost when the bookshop burned down…but then again, given that the lost copy had belonged to Raphael, maybe not.

Crowley had glanced down at his suit trousers. _Thanks, mate. Good spot. I’m sure he’ll want this on the shelves. They do say Voltaire was a hell of a writer._

_Hell of an everything, I'll have you know, you will give that man the respect he deserves._

_All right, all right, calm down. Why are you always so…intense about everything? _

_Shut up. Just get the book. Great resale value or…something._

The voice had disappeared with a hiss and Crowley sighed, wondering why the price he had to pay for his unending desire for Zira was a trouser passenger with a mind of its own that couldn’t stay quiet for more than a day at a time. _Does Zira ever hear from his…fellow? _Crowley wondered idly, before shaking his head with a little laugh, imagining how the conversation might go in his head. It might be worth asking, he reasoned, just to hear the bookseller fluster for an answer.

Before he could ruminate on it any further, he’d felt a sharp jolt against his side as Henry barged past him and stooped down to ogle the copy of Candide, pulling out his catalogue and scrawling notes next to the listing.

_Interesting,_ Crowley had thought, feeling his desire for the book surge. _Okay, you were right. I need to get that book._

_You cannot let that tweed-encased gammon best you, do you hear me?_

_I hear you, little man. I hear you._

Back in the present, the auctioneer announced lot 31 was next on the agenda and Crowley felt a wave of interest ripple around the room as a swell of eager book buyers sat up straight and prepared to engage in extraordinarily civilised literary warfare.

“Our next offering is lot 31, a stunning 1928 copy of Voltaire’s Candide, illustrated by Rockwell Kent. It features the iconic beige cloth cover and decorative spine gilt, patterned endpapers, and comes with the original dust jacket. Light chipping is present on the spine ends but you will find this is a near pristine copy. We’ll be starting the bidding today at one hundred pounds. Do we have one hundred pounds? Thank you, the gentlemen in the yellow tie. One hundred and ten…?”

Throughout the morning Crowley had learned to keep his intentions close to his chest. Some of the most successful work in the room had come from those reserved participants who didn’t peak too soon or let their desperation be known; they would quietly swoop in when the bidding began to ebb and would, more often than not, seal the deal without anybody else even realising the price had been pushed beyond their limit until it was too late.

In an attempt to employ vulture-like sensibilities, he waited until the bidding had reached two hundred pounds before considering throwing his hat, or paddle, into the ring, despite the fact the voice in his head had been screeching for him to bid from the moment the book had been placed in the display case at the front of the room.

_If you don’t paddle…_

_Relax, I'm about to paddle._

Then Henry’s grating voice called out from the back of the room and bumped the price up by forty pounds in one leap and Crowley let out a growling sigh and raised his paddle in the air, confirming that, yes, he would commit to two hundred and fifty pounds.

The price rocketed to two seventy five. Then three hundred came and went. There was a momentary pause before Henry committed to three twenty five, and that was when Crowley realised he would pay _any_ amount of money to ensure Zira’s nemesis didn’t walk away with the book.

_I’ll use my own damn savings if I must but this pompous bastard will not defeat me!_

_That’s more like it! Paddle until you can’t paddle any more!_

“Three fifty. Do we have any takers for three seventy five?” The auctioneer inclined his head towards Henry and waited for a counter-offer.

Lips pressed together in a furious line, the antiques dealer gave a sharp shake of the head and then clapped his paddle against his knee in frustration.

The auctioneer gave one last look around the room before banging the gavel and gesturing one hand in Crowley’s direction. “Last call. No further bids? Lot 31, sold to the gentleman in black.”

And then, though he knew it would lead to nothing but further aggravation, Crowley couldn’t help but turn and flash Henry his most aggravatingly sarcastic of smiles.

***

The morning session had drawn to a close and Crowley had an arm full of books that he was dying to show Zira. The rest of his purchases had been packed away by the couriers ready to be shipped back to the shop but there were a few select titles Crowley hadn’t wanted to let out of his sight, including the Candide, just in case Henry got tempted to avenge the Tadfield incident.

As if merely thinking of the man was enough to summon him, Henry emerged from the crowd and promptly bumped Crowley’s shoulder as he stalked past him, leaning in close to murmur a few choice words before he disappeared in the direction of the dining hall.

“This morning was just a warm up, new boy. Let the men do the real work this afternoon. You just sit by your keeper like a good pet.”

_New boy_? Crowley wrinkled his nose. _Is that supposed to be fighting talk? At this point I’m just flattered anybody would refer to me as ‘boy’. _He chose to ignore the reference to Zira being his _keeper_, knowing it was the only part of the barbed words that had any power to wound him, given that the gargantuan rift between his and Zira’s finances was one of the thoughts that occupied his mind when it went on its daily strolls down Anxiety Lane, occasionally bearing right onto Panic Street.

Henry’s two over-worked, under-paid, over-stressed, under-appreciated assistant were left in his wake. While one trailed obediently after the antiques dealer without giving Crowley a second glance, the other paused to look him up and down and offer a wink of approval. “Not really supposed to sleep with the enemy but I have to say, my good chap, _excellent_ work on the suit. Clings to the arse marvellously.”

Crowley watched him go, mouth agape in shock, then peered over the books in his arms at the trousers that tapered nearly down the length of his legs. _What kind of witchcraft did Franco weave into these trousers?_

***

“Are you all right? Your eyes are…big.” Crowley leaned closer to get a better look at Zira’s pupils, which were dilated beyond any level that would be reasonable, considering he had no illicit substance pounding through his veins other than the heady high of victory.

“It’s the success, Crowley, I’ve gone wild!” Zira clapped both hands down onto Crowley’s shoulders, giving him a little squeeze as he kissed him on the cheek, then shook his head and kissed him again, on the lips that time. “Now, let’s get a table and you can tell me everything about this morning. Oh, is that an illustrated Candide? _Incredible_. How did I miss that in the catalogue? Lucky I’ve got you, eh?”

_I’m the lucky one_, Crowley thought with a happy sigh as he followed Zira across the dining hall to an unoccupied table that was nestled behind a large potted plant. He deposited the books onto the table between them, smiling as Zira reached for his hand, entwining their fingers across the books as he leaned in, eyes somehow rounder and more alive with every passing moment.

“So, what do you think of book buying life? Electrifying, isn’t it? No high like it. _God_, I’ve missed it.” When Zira spoke his voice was clipped and rushed, as if he couldn’t get the words out as quickly as his brain was dreaming them up. One fist was clenched tightly atop the table and Crowley felt the fingers of his other hand tighten around his own, as though the only thing he could do to burn off some of that energy was _squeeze_ whatever was in the vicinity.

Crowley laughed, leaning back in his chair and stroking one thumb lightly across Zira’s. In his world of last minute deadlines and live shows in dingy little nightclubs, he hadn’t been convinced a sedate auction in a beautiful stately home in the depths of Cornwall would conjure up the same adrenaline hit. That, of course, was where he’d been very wrong indeed. It was a different high, one that was borne from pride at helping somebody he loved, but it was an intoxicating high all the same. _Life_, he thought, grinning, _what a wild ride._

“It’s so…genteel, isn’t it?” he mused, eyes roaming across the ornate dining hall as book buyers and antique dealers scurried back and forth, arms full of the spoils of that morning. One woman clutched an intricately hand-painted lamp in one hand that he’d seen her win after a tense bidding war that had, shockingly, ended with the unsuccessful competitor heaving a quiet huff of frustration, which Crowley had come to learn was the auction house equivalent of smashing the place to bits with a baseball bat. “I’ve never heard so much short-tempered tutting in my life.”

“Yes, dealers do love a good tut when things don’t go their way.”

“Somebody did storm out after a phone bidder beat them to a, if I may be so bold, completely unremarkable painting of a daisy. The door slammed a bit, raised a few eyebrows, I’ll tell you that for free. I think they lost a bit of bravado when they popped back in to apologise for causing a ruckus but, still, thought we had a riot on our hands for a minute.”

“Oh, my dear uninitiated assistant, that’s because I had the forethought to start you with the small lots. Things get, er, a bit more tense as the prices increase. Just you wait until this afternoon, all etiquette will fly straight out of the window. It’ll be positively barbaric.”

***

“Six hundred and fifty, plus my firstborn, plus this jacket with all the power of its meticulous back seams!” Crowley hollered, waving his paddle in the air with reckless abandon. Next to him, Zira snorted out a laugh that he quickly transformed into a cough, eyeing Crowley in faux-disbelief, as if he too could barely comprehend such wild behaviour.

“Sir, _please_.” The auctioneer leaned out from behind the desk to fix Crowley with a weary look. “Sensible bids only.”

“Was a sensible bid,” Crowley muttered, sitting back down and nudging Zira as if to say _can you believe this guy?_

_Stop_, Zira mouthed, sliding one hand up Crowley’s thigh and fighting back laughter, blissfully ignorant of the withering looks they were receiving from those sitting on either side of them.

It had all started rather well that afternoon, with Zira swooping in to win an assorted lot of nineteenth century novels that he was already itching to get his hands on to sort through. Job lots were a risk, every buyer knew that, but the allure of a potential hidden gem was too much for Zira to pass over. They were a tentative crowd that day but that suited him perfectly; _all the better for me_, he thought to himself, wondering if it was Crowley’s presence that had made him infinitely more reckless, or the giddy relief at being back in the world he loved so dearly. It was a safe sort of risk, in the scheme of adrenaline-inducing activities, but Zira Fell was a safe sort of man, all things considered.

As Crowley’s bid was politely glossed over in favour of an actual commitment of six hundred and twenty five pounds, the lot was declared sold and a recess of five minutes was announced before the next lot was brought in. The room descended into quiet chatter, the background noise accompanied by several hundred catalogues being flipped through simultaneously. Before they had a chance to plan their next move, Henry appeared in the aisle beside Crowley and Zira, and he did not look happy.

“This is serious business, gentlemen. Might I remind you this isn’t bring your husband to work day?”

Zira opened his mouth to reply but, unfortunately for everybody involved, Crowley was one step ahead of him, an exaggerated look of confusion passing over his face as he looked from Henry to Zira with the best puppy dog eyes he could muster up at a moment’s notice. “It’s not? But, darling, you told me bring your pet to auction day was the highlight of the year!”

Zira wasn’t too sure what had come over him that afternoon. After all, there was nobody who took the book buying life as seriously as he did but when Crowley had slowly begun to act out as the afternoon drew on and the bidding got more intense with each passing lot, he couldn’t help but be seduced into the noble art of abject rule-breaking. Giving Henry a quick eye roll that suggested _husbands, you know what they’re like_, he patted Crowley on the thigh. “I believe I also told you that if you’re _very_ well-behaved indeed I’ll give you an extra treat tonight, the biggest one I…”

“Oh, for… Absolutely gone to the _dogs_, this place,” Henry spat, giving them both a furious glare as he turned and strode back to his seat, two rows behind them.

“He doesn’t like us much, does he?” Crowley murmured, after a moment had ticked by and snatches of Henry’s complaints filtered through the rows. They couldn’t make out every bitter word that passed his lips but they caught enough of it to get the gist: _standard slipping…riff raff…the good old days._

“He doesn’t like anybody very much.” Zira shrugged, thumbing through his catalogue in search of the next lot he had a vested interest in. “Likes to be the most impressive man in the room, as you might have guessed. Extraordinarily fragile ego; I expect he’ll be having nightmares about the Bentley for years to come. To think, he arrived in a lowly Porsche.”

“Heavens, how could he?”

A beat passed before their eyes met and they dissolved into laughter, which was cut short when the auctioneer returned to the room and began announcing the next lot. Zira’s focus remained resolutely on the catalogue in front of him, so Crowley stopped paying attention to what was going on in the front of the room and, to his fast-approaching detriment, tuned into what Henry was saying behind them.

“…_Never been cut out for this business, I’ve always said_…”

“Now, we’ll start the bidding for this sweet treasure at thirty five pounds. Do I hear thirty five pounds? Thank you, the lady in blue to my left. Forty pounds, do we have forty pounds?”

“…_Suspiciously convenient, wasn’t it? Rumours of business drying up and then the fire_..”

Crowley bristled, swallowing tightly and fixing his gaze dead ahead, lest he be tempted to turn around and give Henry a piece of his mind. Light-hearted hijinks was one thing but launching yourself at a fellow buyer? He was sure that was probably frowned upon, even if Henry deserved nothing less than a well-aimed paddle to the face.

“Fifty pounds to the gentlemen in the purple tie. This really is a lovely little thing. Do I hear sixty pounds?”

“…_And the one thing I really can’t abide is the incessant tartan bow tie. Hasn’t been in style since_…”

That was it. That was the moment both Crowley and the voice in his mind had had enough. He turned, paddle raised, bellowing the words at Henry with all the force of a hundred tornados, leaving the man wide-eyed and pacified, as if he was suddenly in the presence of something truly hellish.

“Tartan! Is! Stylish! Why don’t you do us all a favour, Henry, and shut the f-”

“Sixty pounds to the gentleman in black. Seventy pounds, anybody?”

_Wait. What?_

“Going once, going twice… Sold! Sixty pounds to the gentleman in black; we thank you for your _sensible_ bid.”

_Oh, no._

“Crowley?” Zira asked, looking up from his catalogue in time to catch the tail end of the shenanigans. “What did you just buy?”

Crowley swallowed, giving the auctioneer a nervous smile. “I have absolutely no idea.”

***

“It’s rather…forward, isn’t it?” Zira squinted as he peered down at the little statue Crowley was displaying proudly on one outstretched palm.

“It’s the greatest thing I’ve ever owned.” Crowley beamed, twisting his hand to and fro to give Zira a look at all of the statue’s _intimate_ angles, such as they were. It depicted two celestial beings engaged in combat, apparently, though there was something in the demon’s victorious expression and the angel’s wilful submission that lent itself to a wholly different mood.

“Are they…?”

“They’re fighting, angel. _Wrestling_, I think. Evil Vanquishes Good, it’s called. I think it’s a masterpiece, personally. Look, it could be us.”

Zira took it from him, raising an eyebrow and reaching out one hand to steady himself as the boat ferrying them from the island to the mainland rocked against a wave. “Hmm, quite. Who’s who exactly?”

“Depends on the day of the week, doesn’t it?” Crowley shrugged, laughing.

After Crowley’s emphatic defence of tartan and all who dressed themselves in her glorious weave, the auction had settled back into its usual rhythm and the afternoon had come to a close without further incident. Henry, apparently fearful of whatever he had seen in Crowley’s eyes, had slunk off the moment the auction had ended, waiting until he was within safe distance of the exit before loudly complaining about having to get a boat back to the mainland along with _tourists_. Crowley and Zira had had a few business matters to attend to before leaving; Zira had surveyed the afternoon’s purchases before packing them up with the courier, and Crowley had had to collect his accidental statue, which he promptly fell in love with at first sight. It was strange, he thought, as he took it from the clerk and relished the weight of it in his palm, how it had felt like a long lost possession had been returned to him. Still, as far as accidents went, it was a very happy one indeed, and he couldn’t wait to give it pride of place in the flat to simultaneously render every visitor bemused and inexplicably uncomfortable in equal measure.

As Zira examined the statue, Crowley slipped his phone out of his pocket and held it up, snapping a photo of the bookseller as he leaned in close to the gilded figures to study the expression on the angel’s face.

“What are you doing?” Zira asked, looking up and catching Crowley in the act. “Do you think I haven’t noticed you taking photographs every five minutes since we got here?”

The dog walker lowered his phone, smiling sheepishly. “I know you lost your photo albums in the fire. I mean, if you’d just listen to me and embrace technology… Anyway, nothing can replace those memories but I thought I could help you make some new ones, at least.”

“Oh…” The sound that escaped Zira’s lips was so laden with love the bookseller wondered if he even needed to say the words aloud, or if that simpering sound of overwhelming adoration had done the job for him. “Crowley, I don’t know what to say.”

“Don’t say anything just yet.” Crowley laughed, sliding an arm around his shoulders and leaning down to kiss him. “I’m almost as bad at photography as I am at auction etiquette. Speaking of, how did Z. Fell and Co.’s assistant do in his first outing?”

“You were perfect. You're always perfect.”

There they stood, out on deck as the boat rose and dipped with the rhythm of the waves, temple to temple with the statue held aloft between them, grinning into the sunset as Crowley took one last picture to preserve the moment; a memory that not even fire could burn away.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Ah, Henry, bested for now...at least. Hope you all enjoyed Crowley's big day out and the glorious return of the statue, even if it has been shrunk a little.
> 
> I hope you've all had a wonderful week and have so many fun weekend plans on the horizon. What are you all up to? I've got a Christmas crafternoon planned tomorrow, accompanied by copious amounts of mulled wine (as is customary) and, I'm sure, enough nattering that my voice will be gone come Sunday.
> 
> The next chapter is coming on Wednesday and contains a sunset, the moon, some cliffs (just can't get enough of nature, y'know?) - apologies that there's only one chapter next week but this weekend and next are both chokka, you know how it be in the lead up to Christmas but thanks for bearing with me! After this there are only six chapters to go until Part II ends and Part III begins 😱.
> 
> Today Part II passed 200,000 words so *thank you* from the bottom of my heart for taking the time to follow this story, it really does make my day that you're still here with me :D.
> 
> Have an amazing weekend all <3


	42. Watching the Waves

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Crowley let the weight of Zira’s words sink in, found a sense of intimate familiarity in the way he voiced the idea of that elusive sense of self being stripped away, untethered by tragedy.

**March. Carbis Bay, Cornwall.**

“Hey.” Crowley stopped in his tracks, picnic blanket tucked under one arm, and nodded towards the steep path that cut through the rocks and wound its way up to the top of the cliffs.

Zira looked slowly up at the treacherous, vertigo-inducing, hideous death trap path and began violently shaking his head before Crowley could say another word. And yet, as soon as his aggressive head shaking ceased, the dog walker broke into a grin and raised his eyebrows.

“Race you to the top?”

“Absolutely not.” Zira pursed his lips, gripping a bag of empty food containers to his chest and fixing Crowley with a warning look. _There is absolutely no way I am even entertaining the idea of scrambling up a cliff face, so you can wipe that mischievous look off of your face. I am a man of steel and I will not be tempted._

“Loser buys dinner.” Crowley announced the words that time, speaking them as a statement rather than a question, as if the two of them indulging in some pre-dinner rock climbing was a foregone conclusion, just like every other milestone in their relationship.

“Crowley, I am _not_ following you up that…”

***

The tightness in Zira’s chest was reaching concerning levels by the time he hurled himself over the edge of the cliff and rolled onto his back, wheezing into the fading light as he gasped for breath. He could feel something damp soaking into his shirt and sighed, hoping it was nothing but sea spray on the grass and nothing more…nefarious, though one could never be sure where nature was concerned. _This_, he thought to himself, _is why my preferred environment is the inside of a bookshop, feet encased in slippers, hand wrapped around a mug of something warm, book in the other hand, blanket on my knees. And yet here I am, chasing a snake-hipped dog walker up a cliff face. The lengths I’ll go to for the contents of those jeans, honestly._

“That…is…the…” He paused to suck in a deep lungful of air in an attempt to calm his racing heart, wiping the back of one hand across his forehead and grimacing at the moisture he felt there. Eventually he sat up, forearms braced against his splayed knees as his breathing slowly returned to normal. He wagged a stern finger in Crowley’s direction, sighing as he realised his scolding was doing absolutely nothing to curb the dog walker’s joy at having scaled the cliff just in time to see the sunset. “That is the _last_ time I follow you anywhere.”

“You’ve said that before.” Crowley looked over his shoulder, smiling at Zira as the bookseller pulled himself to his feet with all the huffing and puffing befitting someone tired, damp, and over-exercised.

“I mean it this time!”

“Oh, look at that view.” As Zira dusted himself down, tutting at a fleck of mud that was smeared across the thigh of his trousers, Crowley took a few footsteps closer to the edge of the cliffs, gazing out across the sprawling ocean with wonder in his eyes. “There’s a bench over there, we can sit and watch the sunset. Follow me, angel.”

“What did I just say?” Zira huffed, following him anyway, as he always would, wherever the place, whatever the stakes.

It was mesmerising, watching the waves crash against the rocks as the sun hugged the horizon, a semi-circle of flame. The dying light gave the salt spray a fiery sheen, as if the rocks were the crest of a volcano, the waves a torrent of magma bursting free from the underworld, lava burning across the world.

Crowley stood on the edge of the cliff, shoes pressed tightly against the springy sea grass, anchoring himself. The wind was low that day, nothing but a little sea breeze whipping across the coastal path. Even that hint of a breeze could be enough to send you toppling into the depths, of course. As wild as it was beautiful, the sea. To live, Crowley reasoned, as he stared down into that inky water, to _really_ live, was to stare danger in the face, to honour it, and to let it pass over you.

“Come away from there,” Zira called, one hand bracketing his lips to shield his words from the wind. “Crowley, be _careful_. You could fall.”

He was hesitant, for a moment, to turn away, as if turning his back on the danger could be the biggest mistake of all. He turned back to Zira, eventually, smiled as he mimed stepping back one fatal pace, pinwheeling his arms dramatically. “Better catch me then, angel.”

“Come here.” Zira reached for his hand and tugged him forward with enough vigour that he had to jog the last two paces to the bench.

Crowley settled down on the bench, head coming to rest against Zira’s neck as the bookseller wrapped an arm around his skinny shoulders, two fingers sliding under the collar of his coat to press against the warm skin beneath. The dog walker sighed, contented, watched his breath puff out like a stream of smoke in the cool evening air. “Last day tomorrow. Then it’s back to reality. Deadlines and bills and morning alarms.”

“Yes, quite.” Zira rested his chin on top of Crowley’s head, felt soft locks of hair against his neck, closed his eyes and breathed in the sweet peppermint scent of the shampoo he was so fond of. _Makes it soft_, Crowley would insist, hand wrapping around one of Zira’s to guide it to his head, just for the reassurance of a second opinion. _One day left of this dream_, Zira thought, _and then it’s just a matter of waiting until the shop is ready and everything changes again._

There was a moment of quiet, both of them lost to their own thoughts as they mused, separately, how strange it was that three short days of escapism could feel like a lifetime.

It was Zira who spoke first, words coming out strong and unwavering, though there was fear behind every one of them. To speak it out loud, he had begun to realise, tore the power away from it, as if holding fear inside yourself amplified it, gave it permission to twist and grow until it was a great untameable beast. “It’s like we said the other day when we were paddling in the sea. Sometimes I think about disappearing, saying goodbye to this life and starting again. A blank canvas, can you imagine such a thing? I had that, I suppose, when the bookshop burned. Be careful what you wish for, eh? Sometimes I have no idea who I am any more, who I might become, all I know is who I was: the fellow who ran the bookshop in Soho. Now who am I? He feels like a distant memory, that man; so frightened, so scared of life, as if he was…living in the shadow of something he didn’t understand but was too afraid to step away from.”

Crowley let the weight of Zira’s words sink in, found a sense of intimate familiarity in the way he voiced the idea of that elusive sense of self being stripped away, untethered by tragedy. He had felt it, to a lesser extent perhaps, after Barnaby’s accident. He had always been cast in the role of carefree wanderer, refusing to bow to society’s conventions, striking out on his own, pursuing music for nothing but the love of it, forging that unorthodox path and living just fine, sometimes even thriving. That was, of course, the face he presented to the outside world, even to the family. And he had felt it himself, sometimes, more so after Zira had careened into his life and turned everything into a waking dream. But then there had been that frosty day in December and everything had changed. Again.

There was risk now, peeking out from the corner of every street; danger in every slippery stair, every smattering of ice on the roads. It would fade, perhaps, the constant low-level anxiety that an accident was never far away. Or perhaps not. Perhaps that was life now. Still, it had worked out in the end, hadn’t it? Barnaby was recovering well, Zira was…well, the sun would be rising again before he would have even started to chip away at all the reasons his life was better now than before the bookseller had wandered into it, bumbling along as if he might have made a wrong turn somewhere but wasn’t sure quite how to find his way back to the right path. What a luxury it was, he realised, to have everything he always wanted, everything he needed. _Don’t forget it. Don’t be so afraid of losing it that you forget to enjoy it, _he told himself, as he snuggled closer to Zira, finger tracing the outline of a heart on his soft inner thigh.

“You can’t know who you’re going to become, angel, that’s part of the fun. You could become anything, that’s for life to decide. You can’t live in nostalgia or anticipation, you have to live in the nowness, in today; that’s all that really exists. This, now, the two of us, the sea, and the sky. This is what’s real, everything else is just a maybe, if we’re lucky.”

***

“It’s a once in a lifetime…fondness that we have, you and me. Us.” Crowley spoke the words into the night, neatly skirting the conversation that neither party was quite ready to have. Not that night, at least.

“Us against everything.” Zira smiled, leaning into Crowley’s shoulder and closing his eyes, though the darkness around them was so absolute it made little difference whether they were open or closed. The sun had long since said goodnight, leaving thousands of pinpricks of light in her wake, stars so distant they did nothing to light the way in front of them. The cliff edge could have been a pace away from the bench where a bookseller and a dog walker sat in contemplative silence, could have been a lifetime. The waves beat on in the darkness, echoing up from far below them, rolling against the sand, _again again again_, that unending rhythm of the tide, the eternal soulmate of the moon.

_This could be the moment_, Zira thought. _This place, this wild place. This man. Look at everything he is. I can’t wait to tell him, I can’t wait to tell him everything. To tell him that I love him so much that his love is the wind, as if I could be airborne with the weightlessness of it; that there are times when his love is the unknowable blackness of the ocean under the moon, as though it could pull me under, as though I could drown in it._

It wasn’t the only moment, Zira knew that, knew that there would be another moment the next day, or the next. Perhaps building it up into a grand announcement wasn’t wise, he reasoned. It was pressure, self-indulgence, even, to declare your love as something that hinged on reciprocation. He would wait, just a little while longer. What did a few more days matter when the rest of their life together was waiting to be explored? _I’m glad I found you. I’m glad I found you while there’s still so much life left to live with you._

Before Crowley his life had been manufactured togetherness, the illusion of satisfaction with his quiet, _little _life. How much had he held back from people over the years, he wondered? How many times had he lied to Raphael and Tracy, promising he was fine, that he was _happy_, that he didn’t _want_ anything other than exactly what he had? He had fooled himself too, almost, until Crowley had set his world on fire with all of his spontaneity and chaos, had rendered him terrified, but alive.

Zira would look at him sometimes and surprise himself to find dread mounting in his chest, as if he couldn’t fathom a way in which there could be a happy ending for them. It seemed too impossible for something that special, that powerful, to be sustained. He would bury it, though, let love smooth over the cracks and cast out that dread. It was an overwhelming thing, love, was found in those seminal moments they would always remember, like those hours they spent watching the day turn into night atop a cliff at the edge of the world. It was a tiny thing, too, could be found anywhere, if you cared enough to look. There was love in the way Crowley leaned one elbow on the arm of the sofa as he typed, laptop balanced on his knees, or the way his eyes looked so full when Barnaby curled up in his lap, or the way he would break into a smile when he returned to the flat to find Zira on the sofa, as if he’d forgotten he would be there. The bookseller slid an arm around his waist then, marvelled at everything he was, how huge his world was. It was beautiful, that world; people dropping by at a moment’s notice to ask for a favour, to return one, to leave a gift or bring flowers just because. There was warmth in every inch of his existence. Love, too, as if it was sewn into the seams of his life.

_I hope I can make your life as wonderful as you’ve made theirs, my love, as perfect as you’ve already made mine._

“Sometimes I feel like I existed on the other side of a mirror, as if I was trapped there, invisible, unable to do anything other than watch everybody else live. I told you once, didn’t I, that I was bound for life’s periphery? But you pulled me through, and that’s when people began to see me.” He laughed at his clumsy analogy, hoped it translated the way it had in his head. He felt Crowley press a kiss to his cheek, lips bitingly cold against his skin but leaving a flare of warmth in their wake.

“And I told you once, didn’t I, that you’ve never been in my periphery? It was true; you really have been pulling my focus since the day I laid eyes on you. You were home, from that first moment. I didn’t know why, or how, but I knew meeting you had changed everything.” Crowley shifted, uncoiling as he straightened his back, turning to look at Zira as he angled the bookseller’s face towards his with a soft hand against his chin. Zira couldn’t see him, not in the darkness, but he could feel those eyes locked on his, could sense careful hesitation before Crowley spoke again, as if he was readying himself for a moment of bravery. “I know you don’t believe in fate or the stars or foregone conclusions, but something brought us together, angel. You’re everything I always wanted. Sometimes I think I dreamed you into existence, as if we were always supposed to find each other.”

“You’re right. I didn’t believe in fate. I didn’t believe in the stars, either, or forgone conclusions. I didn’t believe in soulmates, or a missing puzzle piece, or anything that the great love stories told me I was missing. I didn’t believe in any of it. But then there was you.”

Crowley smiled at their old refrain, words that never lost their magic however many times they said them aloud, and then his lips found Zira’s in the dark.

“But then there was you.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Happy hump day, friends! How has your week been so far? I hope it's not dragging too much and you all have something fun planned for this weekend.
> 
> I hope you enjoyed today's chapter - there's just one more of the Cornwall trip and then it's back to London for the last four chapters...back where it all began! Next chapter is coming on Tuesday 3rd.
> 
> I'm heading to London on Saturday for a festive weekend so I will, of course, be eating all the food, drinking all the drinks, and spotting all the Good Omens references :D <3


	43. Wrapped Around Your Finger

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Zira staggered forward a pace, one hand clutched to his heart as he shook away the voice in his voice, quietly tentative as it warned him not to get ahead of himself.

**March. Portminster Beach, Cornwall.**

“Crowley, I want to do something spontaneous!” Zira shrieked, grabbing the dog walker’s arm and gripping it with all the ferocity a mild-mannered bookseller could conjure up. “It’s our last night, we should do something special.”

Crowley smiled against the wind, one hand sliding over Zira’s and giving it a little squeeze, as if to say _of course, we can do whatever you want. _It was so out of character for the bookseller to demand spontaneity that Zira could have asked Crowley to follow him to the top of the cliff and leap off into the waves below and he would have done it with a salute and a cheery grin, anything to encourage him to step outside his comfort zone. He assumed, though, that it would be something a little tamer than cliff diving; perhaps going so far as swapping out ketchup for curry sauce on his chips that night. Baby steps, and all that.

“What did you have in mind, angel?”

Fingers curled tighter around his forearm, and then Zira pointed at something across the bay. “Look! I’ve never tried one before. Can we, Crowley, please?”

They’d spent the day walking the coastal path from St Ives to Zennor, which had turned into rather more of an all day affair than they’d planned. After depositing a panting, exhausted, deliriously joyful Barnaby back at the cottage, they’d taken a quick breather themselves before heading out alone for one last beach walk.

The semi-circle swoop of golden sand made up Porthminster Beach, bordered by a crescent of lush emerald green forest that rose up into rolling fields and pretty white cottages. It was the sort of beach that took your breath away, remaining hidden until you tramped down the rocky path and emerged, blinking, onto pristine sand that looked as though it might have been airbrushed. It hadn’t taken them long to stroll from one side to the other, arms linked, hands buried deep in their pockets as the late afternoon wind began to pick up. They were buffered, a little, by the rising hills that hugged the beach, but there was a bite in the air sharp enough to leave them red-nosed and chilly as the sun began to fade.

Crowley squinted, following Zira’s finger as he pointed at a whitewashed building perched up on the edge of the cliff path opposite them. He could make out a sign that had the same jaunty writing that all beachside restaurants were emblazoned with but the specific words were eluding him. It didn’t matter much what the restaurant was offering; he fully intended to indulge whatever desires Zira had in mind that night, and the next. And all the nights that came after, come to mention it. “Well, let’s go and do something spontaneous then.”

“This will be the first of many, I’m sure. I’ve heard such wonderful things.” Zira grabbed for his hand, dragging him along towards the beginning of the path that cut up through the rocks and joined the cliff path above them. He laughed, looking back at Crowley and raising his eyebrows as if he couldn’t wait to discover whatever the restaurant offered, as if he was delighted at the notion of the two of them starting a new tradition together. Crowley allowed himself to get pulled along by the bookseller, revelling at the easy way he reached for him, how he felt safe enough to talk about the future as a sure thing, a done deal. There was something quietly liberating, he realised, at letting somebody else take charge for once. Perhaps he would take a back seat more often, let life happen to him instead of the other way around.

“Where exactly are we going?” Crowley asked, as they clambered over a stile at the edge of a field and wandered down the well-trodden coastal path towards the restaurant.

“Oysters!” Zira cried, one hand waving in the direction of the building with a flourish as the word came into terrifying focus as they drew ever closer.

Crowley had never eaten oysters. Had never had particularly strong opinions about them, as far as he was aware, but as the writing on the cheerful restaurant sign revealed itself to him he felt nausea begin to swirl in the depths of his stomach as the voice in his mind uncoiled and hissed a solemn warning.

_Abort mission, mate. Trust me. If you let this become a tradition it will never end, you’ll be forcing down the salty, mushy blighters for the rest of your days._

_But he looks so excited. Look at his little face, I can’t say no to that._

Next to him, blissfully unaware that his boyfriend was engaged in a fierce mental debate, Zira beamed away as they trudged down the stony path towards the pretty restaurant. They were close enough to see a waitress bustling about inside lighting the candles that were set up on each of the tables, and the sight of that cosy set up filled Zira with yearning the likes of which he hadn’t felt since earlier that day when they’d walked past a little ice cream shop near Zennor that was closed for the season. There was nothing quite like the heartbreak of forgoing ice cream but perhaps the oysters would make up for it.

_Yes, yes, face of an angel, I know what it’s like. If you insist on going through with this all I can say is good luck, little one._

_Er, thank you, little man, although I know well and good you’ve definitely never been in the vicinity of an oyster._

_If I’ve told you once, I’ve told you a hundred times, I’m not your…never mind. _There was a weary sigh, and then the voice withered away into nothingness, as if it knew resistance was futile.

As Crowley followed Zira inside the restaurant and waited, compliant and passive, for their sharing plate of freshly caught oysters to arrive, he wondered, not for the first time, if he might be the only person on the planet whose phallus had gained sentience through nothing other than unparalleled desire for a blond-haired, angel-faced bookseller from Soho. Even if not, he mused, surely his must be the only conscious trouser passenger with such outspoken opinions on cuisine. Still, he reasoned, it couldn’t be a bad thing to be on speaking terms with your nethers, could it?

***

“I can’t believe you let me tempt you into a second one.” Zira threw his head back in laughter as he slid an arm around Crowley’s waist, pulling him close to kiss his cheek as the two of them careened back into the cottage, after what had turned out to be a very entertaining dinner. “I thought people turning green was just an expression.”

“So did I.” Crowley winced, closing his eyes against the memory of the briny oyster slicking its way down his throat. A full pint, chugged with all the vigour of a student on a dare, had done nothing to mask the taste.

When he opened his eyes again he knew instantly that something was wrong. It was too quiet. He spotted a white feather on the floor, then another a few inches closer to the bedroom door. _Oh no_. Panic unfurled in his throat as he spotted a third feather, and a fourth, and then he untangled himself from Zira and sprinted to the bedroom, letting out a strangled cry that echoed around the little cottage.

Behind him, Zira was staring at the feathers in wonder, his eyes glistening with tears of unadulterated joy as he took in the scene, padding closer to the bedroom and finding more and more fluffy white feathers littering the floor.

_Oh my god. It’s happening. It’s really happening. Is this the night where we declare our eternal love?_

_I, er, don’t want to burst your bubble, old bean, but I don't think…_

Zira staggered forward a pace, one hand clutched to his heart as he shook away the voice in his head, quietly tentative as it warned him not to get ahead of himself.

_No, no, don’t you see? He calls me angel. Of course he would choose feathers instead of rose petals. Feathers for his angel. Oh, I need to take a seat, my knees will give out with the romance of it all._

He sagged back against the wall, steadying his breathing as he made himself a solemn promise to act shocked when he joined Crowley in the bedroom to find, presumably, perfect angelic feathers littering every surface, candles burning softly in the darkness, perhaps a bottle of champagne ready for them to enjoy in bed.

_Oh, oh my, _he thought to himself, as he let his imagination sprint firmly in the direction of abject fantasy. _What if there’s…a ring box? Do I dare to dream? Will I cry? Will I let him finish before I sob yes and fling myself at him?_

Pasting on the most neutral expression he could possibly conjure up in the face of the imminent proposal he had already decided was a foregone conclusion, Zira paced casually into the bedroom, hastily unbuttoning his shirt as he prepared for a post-proposal ravaging and…then his jaw dropped open as he took in the sight of Crowley crouched over the bed, helplessly grasping handfuls of feathers as he stared desperately back at Zira.

“Where the _hell_ are you?” he hissed suddenly, striding past Zira and disappearing down the corridor as the bookseller’s dream of a swooningly romantic end to the night died a sudden, absolute death. “Barnaby? Come here!”

As Crowley’s furious footsteps pounded down the corridor, Zira took a step closer to the bed and pinched the helpless remnants of the ripped duvet between his thumb and index finger. The entire thing had been shredded, feathers billowing out from the gaping fabric as he dropped it back onto the bed. _Well, there goes the proposal. And the damages deposit on the cottage._

“Where are you?” Crowley’s voice rose up from the silence and Zira hurried down the corridor to join him in the kitchen, where he’d come to a stop in front of Barnaby’s bed.

The big black dog was laying on it as calm and serene as if he’d been there ever since they’d dropped him off earlier that afternoon. His tail was wrapped around his hind legs and his chin rested prettily against his front paws. Zira gently brought a hand to rest on Crowley’s forearm, opening his mouth to leap to the dog’s defence. He looked, for all the world, like the picture of perfect innocence.

At least, until he opened his mouth to yawn and revealed a single white feather wadded up on his tongue.

***

“Oh, don’t be too hard on him,” Zira pleaded, as Crowley angrily locked the Bentley and jammed the keys into his pocket, stomping across the empty car park towards the only twenty four hour supermarket in the entirety of West Cornwall.

“He is a _bad_ boy.” Crowley stopped then, sighing as he waited for Zira to catch up, having let the rage temporarily cloud the fact that the two of them boasted very different dimensions in the leg department.

“He is _not_ a bad boy.” Zira slapped him gently on the arm, determined to fight Barnaby’s corner to the very end. “Maybe we left him for too long.”

“We were only gone for three hours, angel. He can handle being alone for three hours. He’s been acting up for weeks now. You remember what he was like just before Christmas, being chauffeured around the city twice a day. That’s what did it, I knew that would come back to bite me in the arse. He’s become so _spoiled_.”

Zira could only gape at him in shock. In the seven months he had known Crowley he had never, not once, heard him say a word against his beloved dog. Before he could speak to defend Barnaby again, Crowley heaved out a frustrated breath and visibly softened, hands braced against his hips as he stood, silhouetted, under a flickering light in the car park.

“Maybe three hours was pushing it,” he conceded, taking Zira’s hand and heading towards the shop, hoping desperately that they had a duvet in stock that would shape up to the cottage’s original, which now resided, deconstructed, in a number of black bin bags. “He’s still the best boy, even when he’s a bad boy.”

“He didn’t look very sorry, did he?” Zira admitted, recalling the dog’s obstinate refusal to acknowledge his shame, even when Crowley returned, glowering, from the bedroom to dump two handfuls of feathers in front of him in an attempt to procure an admission of guilt. He had just barked happily, nosing the feathers around the floor of the kitchen and sneezing adorably when one attached itself to the end of his snout. “Perhaps he thought he was doing them a favour. The feathers, I mean, liberating them from their cotton prison.”

“Their _Egyptian_ cotton prison, lest we forget.” Crowley blinked twice as the automatic doors spat them into the brightly lit supermarket, abandoned save for a few employees who were gathered by the customer service desk, looking like they’d rather be absolutely anywhere other than working that late at night. There was something otherworldly about supermarkets at midnight, he had always thought, as though you weren’t _really_ supposed to be there, or, perhaps, as if a zombie apocalypse might break out at any time. Dealer’s choice. That night, as he glanced at the apathetic, bleary-eyed staff, things seemed to be veering closer to the zombie horde angle. He shook his head, refocusing his mind on the task at hand. “Okay, homewares… Ah, here we go, angel. Fingers crossed.”

Ten minutes later they emerged victoriously from the homeware aisle, a thickly rolled up duvet sandwiched between Crowley’s elbow and waist, Zira clutching a white set of sheets under one arm. All they had to do was ensure all loose feathers were smuggled out under the cover of darkness and nobody would be any the wiser. Zira’s deposit would be safe once again.

“Oh, wait one moment, we don’t have any butter at home. I might as well pick some up for us now, we won’t want to go straight out when we get back tomorrow, will we?” Zira set off at a speedy pace which, for him, was something halfway between an amble and a stride. Crowley watched him leave with a lovesick smile on his face, utterly bewitched by the way Zira had so casually referred to them as a unit: _We. Home. Us._

_I love you, you sweet, sweet, angel, do you know that? Well, probably not, because I haven’t summoned up the courage to tell you. But I will, soon, when it’s time for The Talk to End All Talks. The Most Terrifying Talk in the Land. The I Love You Talk. The I Love You Desperately and Utterly and I Hope You Feel the Same but No Worries If Not Talk. The…_

_Not that I want to spoil the tension but, newsflash, he is just as hopelessly in love with you as you are with him._

_But you can’t know that. Not until he says it. He might just be…fond of me._

_You’re just going to have to trust me._

_Look, mate, there’s a lot I trust you with, believe me, and if you’re right about my feeling being requited I'm sure a lot of it will come down to your…enthusiastic efforts over the months, but I’m not going to believe that perfect bookseller is in love with this disastrous dog walker until I hear the words fall from his dreamy lips, all right?_

_All right, fine, I’m just saying, you’re the one who’s always prattling on about foregone conclusions._

_That’s different and you know full well what I…_

“I got it!” Zira called, waving the butter victoriously above his head as he amble-strode his way back to Crowley, a look of concern spreading across his face as he caught sight of the dog walker’s expression. “What? What are you looking at? Is there something on my face?”

“Nothing, just you.” Interrupted mid-thought, Crowley banished the voice back into the depths of his mind and grinned, kissing Zira as a hand slid to the small of his back to pull him closer. “They, er, say it’s only right to christen new bedding, don’t they? Seven years back luck otherwise, isn’t it?”

“Oh, well, in _that_ case, rude not to. Best be on our way then, not a moment to waste.”

***

_I could look at every ocean glittering under the moon, every beam of light dappling the forest floor in springtime, every star in the sky, and nothing could come close to being as beautiful as your face looking up at me, that look in your eyes, that smile on your lips. I love you, angel, beyond anything I’ve ever known, beyond comprehension, beyond reason._

Zira smiled up at him, legs hooked around the back of his thighs, urging him deeper as they moved together in a rhythm that was as practised as if they had spent millennia perfecting it, as exquisitely thrilling as if it was the first time. Crowley’s fingers circled the smooth skin of Zira’s wrists, pinning them down on either side of his shoulders and dipping his head to bite gently at the soft flesh below his collarbone. The bookseller sucked in a breath at that welcome shock of pain, lips curving into a grin as he rocked his hips forwards and closed his eyes against the acute pleasure of Crowley’s body pressed so tightly to his. Zira relaxed underneath the weight of him, neck craning up to meet his lips in a kiss that deepened until they were both dizzy, panting breaths into the darkness, Crowley’s forehead pressed to Zira’s as he murmured words into the night that the bookseller could barely hear over the sound of his own desperate moaning as stars shone before his eyes as he cried out into the darkness and one resounding thought pounded in his mind: _I love you, I love you, I always have, I’ll never stop._

There was a moment of quiet, as there always was immediately after, as Crowley uncurled his fingers from Zira’s wrists, stroked the bookseller’s hair back from his damp forehead and kissed him gently, sweetly, as they caught their breath and let the world rebuild itself around them.

“Angel,” Crowley breathed, heart thumping against the bookseller’s chest as he stared down into his face and whispered the word as if it had stopped being a pet name, had become more of an observation. “You really are.”

Zira raised a trembling hand, held it against Crowley’s face, thumb stroking across that sharp sweep of a cheekbone. “The most perfect face I’ve ever seen. I could wake up next to you every morning, and I hope I do, and you would never stop being the best surprise of my life.”

Then there was only Crowley’s nose softly burrowed against his cheek, the feel of the dog walker’s eyelashes fluttering closed against his skin, lips catching the corner of his mouth in a kiss.

***

Dawn was a distant dream when Zira stirred, the thought of the e-mail he’d absent-mindedly opened earlier that day coursing through his mind. It was what had woken him, he was sure, the feeling of disappointment and nervousness swirling together into a concoction of dread that had settled in the pit of his stomach when he’d read the e-mail’s contents. It had abated, temporarily, as the afternoon’s beach walk and oyster supper had distracted him but there, in the dead of night when there was nothing else to focus on, it had crept back in.

_To: Zira Fell_

_From: ST Architects_

_Good afternoon Mr Fell,_

_I hope this e-mail finds you well._

_I’m delighted to inform you that we’ve received confirmation from the surveyors today that your property has passed regulation checks and now been signed off in full. Our final working date will be March 12th and the keys will be ready for collection from our office from 9am the following morning._

_It’s been a pleasure working with you, Mr Fell, and we wish you good luck in the future._

_Kind regards,_

_Steven Thomas_

_ST Architects_

He’d opened it earlier that afternoon after their epic trek with Barnaby had concluded with the dog downing the contents of his water bowl and hurling himself onto his bed as he attempted to catch his breath. While Crowley had dutifully refilled his bowl and fetched a treat to celebrate a good walk well done, Zira had passed the time by checking his e-mails, a habit he’d only recently picked up after the launch of the shop’s website.

_I should be on cloud nine_, he’d said to himself, as he reread the e-mail once more, before locking his phone and sliding it back into his pocket, where it still remained, hidden away in the pocket of trousers that had been hurriedly relegated to the bedroom floor after they'd returned from the late night trip to the supermarket.

_Everything is going to change. What if we drift apart? What if this is the last perfect night we have together? What if this is the last morning I wake up next to him with everything so uncomplicated, so right?_

_I’ll tell him, _Zira thought, steering his mind away from imagined conversations about how he might bring it up, how Crowley might react, all the promises they’d make that nothing would change, that it might even improve things, really, if they were honest. _I’ll tell him soon. Just a few more days. Just a little while longer before I break this spell. I know nothing needs to change, not really, so why does separation feel like danger?_

He looked down at the man sleeping on his chest, at the way his lips were ever so slightly parted as he breathed in and out, deeply asleep, eyelids twitching every so often as if he was caught in a dream.

Chance. Fate. Destiny. Such abstract things. Rooted in faith, in the most absolute definition of the word. Was it chance that had brought them together? Were they a foregone conclusion, as Crowley said so often with one of those wry smiles on his face? On that day when the world had shifted and Zira had felt forever changed, as if he was suddenly _more_ of himself than he ever had been, what would have happened if he hadn’t walked into The Garden bar and ordered himself, and then a stranger, a drink? Would fate have tried a second time? Would Zira have stumbled on an uneven pavement that night, staggered into a stranger and looked up to apologise, found himself staring into a pair of golden eyes that appeared to look right into the heart of him when the rest of the world looked through him?

What an honour, Zira mused, to love somebody that fiercely. What a privilege to look upon the face of somebody who, a year previously, has been nothing but a stranger, and know that the sight of them was so deeply ingrained in your mind that the memory of the glint of their eyes in the sunset, the sound of their laughter on the wind, the feeling of their lips against your fingertips could never be lost, not to time, not to anything at all.

In the darkness, Zira pressed a soft kiss against Crowley’s forehead, and then a second, for courage.

“I love you,” he whispered, smiling to himself at the thrill of speaking those three words aloud for the first time. A trial run, of sorts. “I love you, Crowley.”

“Angel?” Crowley stirred a moment later, twisting against Zira’s chest to look up at him, eyes opening uselessly in the darkness. His voice was slow with sleep, the words bleeding into each other as he reached for Zira’s hand in the night. The bookseller found his fingers, brought them to his lips and pressed a kiss to the back of his hand. “Did you say something?”

“Just a dream. Go back to sleep, my love.”

There was a soft sigh of breath against his bare chest, a wriggle of a body against his as the dog walker adjusted his position, and then a heartbeat later Zira heard Crowley’s breaths deepen as he slipped gently, easily, back into whichever dream he had been woken from.

Zira lay awake a little while longer, rehearsed conversations trickling into his consciousness as he imagined the best case scenario, and then the worst.

They would always have Cornwall, he reasoned, whatever happened when it was time for him to go, to move back to the shop and change the goalposts in their relationship once again. That magical escape surrounded by the wild beauty of nature had felt like a dream. Perhaps it had been. Those days had held the crescendo of perfection that felt like a finale, one last flourish before the magic burned itself out. It was ephemeral, that kind of happiness, he knew that, but if he held it carefully in his hands then, perhaps, the echo of it would be enough the sustain whatever would come after.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hi folks! Wow, it feels like forever since I’ve posted but I guess six days isn’t that long really :).
> 
> I really hope you’ve enjoyed this trip to Cornwall. Back to London next time and the chapter will be coming on Friday.
> 
> I hope you’ve all been well - let me know what you’ve been up to <3


	44. About Today

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> He didn’t need Zira to say another word to know that they were about to have another one of the milestone talks he was usually so fond of. Only that time he wasn’t convinced it was going to be as enjoyable as the others.

**March. Crowley’s Flat, London.**

Zira wasn’t intentionally pulling away from Crowley, didn’t mean to shrink back when the dog walker unconsciously moved closer to him in the barren hours between midnight and dawn, and yet, he found himself slowly crawling back inside that shell he had fitted into so comfortably for so many years, transforming back into the man he used to be, the man who was ruled by fear.

He’d been caught in a cycle of burying his head in the sand since they’d returned from Cornwall eight days previously. Every morning had begun the same way: with Zira hunched over the bathroom sink, staring at his reflection and promising that _today will be the day. I’ll tell him today. Whatever happens, by the time we say goodnight I’ll have told him. _Inevitably, though, each day had ended with a lingering kiss, a sleepy goodnight, and then the click of the lamp as the room was plunged into darkness and Zira was left alone with thoughts of his own cowardice.

_Why is it so hard?_ On a bright springtime Thursday, Zira paced back and forth in front of the sofa, one finger tapping impatiently against his lip as he waited for Crowley to return with Barnaby after a lunchtime walk. He’d declined to join them, had made up an excuse about having a new online order to pack up. Crowley hadn’t believed him; he’d seen the flicker of doubt on the dog walker’s face, the heartbeat of hurt before he’d pasted on a smile, kissed him on the cheek and said they’d be back in a couple of hours. Left mercifully alone, Zira had resumed the activity he’d spent most of his time doing since they’d returned to London: pacing the flat and wondering how to broach the subject of moving out when he was terrible at articulating how he felt about anything, and Crowley was coiled and ready to let his abandonment flag unfurl at any moment.

_Why can’t I just tell him? Crowley, thank you for everything you’ve done for me these last two months. I’ll never be able to repay you for every kindness you’ve shown me, but it’s time for me to move back into the shop and get my life back on track. Nothing between us needs to change, you know, I’ll still be here all the time, stealing the duvet and eating more than my share of the cheese. And I’ll get you a key cut for the shop, of course, the two of you are welcome to come and go as you please, what’s mine is yours. Oh, and I’m not sure if I mentioned it before, might have slipped my mind, but I’m heart-shatteringly in love with you and wondered if perhaps you might want to, I don’t know, in time…maybe…_

_Look, my little fellow, I don’t mean to interrupt what I’m sure wouldn’t have been another empty promise to tell him the truth but today is the last day you can tell him without it being too late. You can’t pack up your bags and leave without giving him some warning, that would be cruel._

_I’m not trying to be cruel, I’m trying to be cautious. What if everything changes when I tell him?_

_Nothing has to change, but if you tell him at the eleventh hour of course it won’t go over well. How would you feel? He’ll panic. You know him. Tell him today. It will be okay, little one._

_But how can you be sure?_

_Trust me. Trust is what it all comes back to in the end. He knows this day is coming, just tell him._

_I will. I just want one more perfect day before we have a new normal to adjust to. I don’t know why I feel so…I don’t know, the idea of us separating feels like something bigger than it is. I don’t understand it, I just know it feels wrong, as though it’s only going to lead to us losing our way._

_Listen to me, Zira. Stop lying to him. He doesn’t deserve it._

_Excuse me, whoever you think you might be, I’m not lying to him. I might have held back a few details in the name of self-preservation but I haven’t said a single untruth to him and you know it. Stop telling me what to do, everyone is always telling me what I should be doing. I’ve had enough of it._

He banished it then, the voice, cast it into the corners of his mind where it was easier to ignore the unpleasant facts it was speaking. He _would_ tell Crowley the truth. He would come up with a plan to ensure nothing would change, that Crowley wouldn’t feel as though he was walking out as soon as he no longer needed him. He just needed time and something would come to him, he knew it.

***

**The Next Day. Z. Fell and Co., Soho.**

Zira ran his hand along an empty bookcase, fingertips gathering wood dust as he breathed in the scent of plaster and varnish. It smelled of reinvention, of a blank canvas that he could paint any way he wished. Soon enough the shelves would be groaning with books: some decades old, some centuries old, some brand new. Stocking new releases was a recent decision he’d made but it sat within him comfortably, as if he didn’t need to hide away in the past any longer, as if years gone by had been a sort of armour with which to protect himself. Perhaps the present could be as safe a place to explore. It was like Crowley had said to him: _you have to live in the nowness, that’s all that really exists_.

He’d collected the keys from the architects that morning, twirled them around his finger as he’d walked up to the shop, pausing on the street corner opposite to take in the pristine burgundy facade, freshly painted, his name emblazoned in gold. It looked perfect, a phoenix from the ashes.

Inside, it felt startlingly cavernous, free from the usual clutter and chaos that had been spread across every available surface until fire had swept through the building and reduced it all to smoking curls of paper that had once been stories, or letters, or memories. _Still_, Zira reasoned, as he took himself on a tour of the space that was ready to have new life breathed into it, _there’s freedom in beginning again_.

It would take a while for the shop to be ready to launch, he’d need a few more estate sales under his belt before he had enough new stock to fill those empty shelves. There was so much to do between running the online shop, which had begun to pick up steam in recent weeks, and attending auctions, organising the stock that had already arrived and scanning it into the inventory, planning the first of the series of events he and Crowley and Tracy had brainstormed for the rest of the year. It was overwhelming if he thought about it for too long, the amount he had on his plate, had begun to wonder if he could even do it all on his own. It was easier before, to run the shop when all he did was sit behind the cash desk and worry about how few sales he had made that day, and the day before. Things were different now, would be busier, hopefully, and a single pair of hands may no longer do the job. He had been wondering for a while, for a long time, if he was honest, if Crowley might be interested in playing a role in the business. Online Co-ordinator, or Webmaster, or whichever one of those mystifying job titles would be suitable. He had seemed to enjoy the work they’d done together in recent months, had grumbled the other day about a quieter start to the year work-wise than he was comfortable with.

_It could work_, Zira thought to himself, _we make a good team_. _A role in the business as a start, perhaps. If that goes well then, maybe, we could begin to look for a living space of our own. Together. Look at how much has changed for the better since I’ve lived away from the shop, since I’ve created a life outside of work. Somewhere near St James’s Park, that would be perfect; it’s his favourite dog walking spot, after all. We’d need a parking space, of course. Big windows from wall to wall, let that early morning London light pour in. He looks so beautiful bathed in it, golden in the dawn. And it wouldn’t be mine, or his, it would be ours. Our home. I could turn the flat into a stockroom, then maybe I wouldn’t be tripping over stacks of books wherever I go. Or an event space, perhaps, for all those ideas Tracy has. Maybe Tracy could make use of it, come to think of it, she could use it for her readings, her…star work, whatever the devil it’s called._

As his mind charged headfirst into fantasies of the future, Zira climbed the freshly painted stairs and padded into the bedroom. He had visited earlier that week to take delivery of the furniture for the flat - the bed, the bookcases, the grand wardrobe that would soon be filled with rows of identical cream and pale blue ensembles, that familiar sartorial safety blanket. That day, however, was the first time he was seeing the flat as a finished product, as somewhere that was ready and waiting for his triumphant return to that space that had been so safe for so many years, even when it had felt more like duty than home. There was comfort in duty, after all, in expectation. It was routine, something he could navigate on autopilot. And that had been the change, Zira realised, the fire had burned away the option for him to live his life on autopilot. He had had no choice but to forge a new path and now he had stepped away from a life of routine he was loathe to return to it.

There was no possibility of life on autopilot wherever Crowley was involved. Zira smiled at the thought of the months they had spent living together, of all the chaos and spontaneity that had seemed so intimidating in the early days, but now felt like home. There was a thrill in never knowing what the day might hold, who might drop by, where the night might take them.

Zira sighed, sinking down on that brand new bed and spreading both hands across the tightly tucked in duvet, the bed so neatly made it was as if it was a hotel instead of a home, somewhere to rest your head at the end of a busy day but not a place in which to curl up and dream, to watch the stars through the window as the night drew in. And then, quietly, he voiced his fear aloud, the thought that had risen up again and again every time he had tried to tell Crowley that it was time for him to move back into the shop, for their time living together to come to an end.

“I don’t want to lose him.”

_You won’t lose him_. The voice in Zira’s head spoke gently, as if it wasn’t sure its presence would be welcome after their spat the day before. _It’s not goodbye forever, it never will be, not with you two. All you need to do is love him and be honest with him, that’s all he’s ever wanted from you, all he’s ever needed. Don’t waste time. Don’t make the same mistake I did. I know change feels like you’re being torn apart, as if it’s somehow destroying what you’ve built, and I know you’re confused about why it feels so…hopeless all of a sudden. I’m sorry for that. It’s, well, you can blame me. Let’s call it an echo, shall we? Residue, perhaps, if that makes things any clearer._

_Residue…echoes…what does any of this mean? I don’t understand. I don’t understand any of this. Everything’s changing. I need to talk to him but every time I try I just…get this feeling that we shouldn’t be apart. I don’t know what it means. And then you talk to me about echoes and residue and that somehow all of this is your fault. How can it be your fault? You’re just…my thoughts._

_Perhaps I should have explained things to you a long time ago. I know this might make everything seem even more complicated but…_

_Stop, please. Enough. Just…let me tell him in my own time. I’ll do it tonight. I have more to tell him than the news about the shop. I don’t want one to cloud the other. Just leave me to decide what I’m going to say, please._

There was the feeling of pause, as if a rebuttal might come, but then there was only Zira, alone, perched on the edge of an unfamiliar bed, his fingers knotted in sheets still creased from their packaging.

***

**Later That Night.**

Crowley hissed under his breath as he shrugged his guitar case higher up on his back and pulled the hood of his coat over his hair, which was already damp and slicked to his forehead. One arm was pinned tightly against his chest, holding the book in place under his coat as he protected it from the rain. He’d picked it up earlier that day on his way to the band’s rehearsal for their next gig. It was a simple thing from the outside, much like the last book he had given Zira, with a black canvas cover that did little to give away the glossy pages inside that were adorned with photos of Zira’s life over the weeks since the shop had burned down. A book of new memories from a fresh start.

Crowley knew their time living together would come to an end soon enough, and while fear of change swelled whenever he thought too much about it, at least they would have a little while longer before Zira moved out. After all, the architects would have to give him plenty of notice, wouldn’t they?

He’d been waiting to tell Zira that he loved him since that day in Cornwall when the obvious had fallen into his lap and he’d given his feelings a name, had wanted to make sure it was a special event, something that both of them would remember. In case his words weren’t enough he’d wanted to do something else, a little extra to show Zira just how much he meant to him. The photo book was the physical manifestation of his impending love confession, a visual journey of their story so far. He’d left a few blank pages at the end of the book, space to fill with whatever the next few months had in store for them. And then, perhaps, a second book of memories, and then a third.

_Tonight’s the night_, he thought to himself, considered saying the words out loud to make it feel real, to convince himself not to go back on his promise to tell Zira that he was, if it wasn’t already glaringly obvious, deeply in love with him.

It was normal, he reasoned, that his nerves had increased exponentially since the moment he’d decided to tell Zira how he felt. It was also normal, he was sure, that he had begun to look for little changes in Zira’s behaviour, tiny hints that he might not feel the same. He tried to tell himself that nothing was wrong, that Zira hadn’t been pulling away from him, emotionally and physically, that it was all a matter of him reading into things too much, of looking for signs of negativity where none existed. Surely Zira hadn’t _really_ tensed up and shifted away from him when he’d reached out for him in the darkness, he probably hadn’t even felt Crowley’s fingertips on his skin. After all, why would he suddenly have such a change of heart?

_Unless_, Crowley thought, feeling that pit of dread in his stomach, _it was the holiday. _All of the near-imperceptible changes he had noticed in Zira had happened since that last day of their break to Cornwall. Perhaps it was too much too soon. He’d read somewhere that a third of all couples broke up after their first holiday together, he just hoped the same fate wouldn’t await them, that his plans for that night wouldn’t solidify his fears that the bookseller was slipping away from him.

_Maybe I shouldn’t do it tonight. Maybe I should leave it a little while longer, give him some space in case he’s feeling overwhelmed._

_Love is too great a thing for you to keep to yourself, not when you know he feels the same._

_But I don’t know he feels the same, that’s the problem. He hasn’t told me he loves me, has he? So maybe he doesn’t. When he knows, he’ll tell me. Words are his world._

_You know how he feels. He shows you every time you’re together. You know he loves you, I know you do. He’s a man of actions, not of words. He reads them, disappears into them, but they’re not so easy for him to say. It’s a weapon, honesty like that. Once he says it out loud he can never take it back. He’ll be forever vulnerable. That’s why he’s taking his time._

_I need to hear him say it. It’s not real if he doesn’t say it. I can’t trust actions._

_I know, mate. I know all too well. But don’t be so fixed on your way being the only way; there’s more than one way to love someone._

As the voice gently retreated into the back of his mind, Crowley sighed and walked on towards home, rain pattering against his back.

_I hope you’re right. I hope this isn’t a mistake._

***

Back at the flat, Zira was dithering. It wasn’t a new feeling. He had become rather good at it over the years but, still, he had an important conversation to rehearse and dithering was not on the agenda. He really should have had the foresight to schedule in an hour or so of fruitlessly wandering the flat, wringing his hands, and letting his mind catastrophise the ultimate worst case scenario while Barnaby followed him like a shadow.

“I’ll miss you, you handsome fellow,” Zira murmured, pausing to crouch down and wrap both arms around the dog’s soft neck. “We’ll see each other all the time, I promise. It won’t be the same, though, will it? Perhaps you can have a word with your dad, see if he’s pondered the idea of moving in with a cowardly, hapless bookseller. We’d get somewhere with plenty of space for you, maybe even your own room if we’re feeling spendy. Thank you for cheering me up for these long weeks, Barnaby, you truly are the best of boys.”

Happy that his good nature had been appreciated enough for the time-being, Barnaby ambled over to his bed and collapsed onto it with a satisfied humph, leaving Zira to clamber to his feet and resume his frantic fretting, as if all the bravery he had accrued over the past seven months had been stripped away, leaving only panic behind.

He had packed most of his things already, had left his bags tucked away in the bedroom so he could speak to Crowley first, explain that he would start the process of moving back into the shop the next day. It could be a gradual thing, he hoped, something that could be spread over a few days, as if it might make the transition easier.

It was his biggest fear, the thing he couldn’t wrap his head around, how they could possibly go from living together to living apart and it not feel like taking a step backwards. How was it possible, he wondered, to downgrade your commitment, to work your relationship in reverse, and for things to not fall apart?

Then again, what if they moved in together permanently and it all went wrong? There was risk in deeper commitment too. What if he gave up the flat above the shop, what if Crowley gave up his own flat that he loved so much? What if they took the plunge and everything went south when they no longer had their own space to retreat to? What if he ended up with nowhere to live because Tracy had already filled his old bedroom with moon banners and velvet curtains and the heady scent of incense that he’d never be able to get out of the place?

Zira knew that panic was borne out of his fear of losing Crowley but it didn’t stop him letting those thoughts take root in his mind until they threatened to take over completely. He had spent those days since they had returned from Cornwall torturing himself with imagined scenarios that led to the dissolution of their relationship, felt as though he already knew how it would happen, could hear Crowley’s words, could feel that loss in his chest. He already felt love so intense that he could barely fathom the pain of losing it if he gave it time to grow any stronger.

He thought of the night they had spent sitting on that bench overlooking the sea, of the way the stars had shone so beautifully above them, of the words they had shared under the safety blanket of darkness. It felt so otherworldly, as if it had happened in a different time, as if it had happened to somebody else entirely. It felt so distant it could have been a story he had read in a book one time, a treasured passage he returned to time and time again to read aloud and disappear into.

_Of course this is doomed. It isn’t a matter of if things go wrong, it’s when. I shouldn’t feel this much, not this soon, it shouldn’t go this fast, life can’t be this easy._ The realisation hit him with a crack, as if he couldn’t believe he had only just understood it. _This isn’t how it works for me. I’m not the sort of man who lays eyes on the great love of my life and gets to spend the rest of my years discovering new ways to love him every day. It’s impossible. Look at his life, how busy, how big, how ever-changing it is, all the good he does. Every star in his sky is somebody who loves him. There is nowhere where a reclusive, selfish, cowardly bookseller fits into that sweeping star-filled galaxy of a life._

It was safer, Zira realised, when they had been nothing other than friends who pined for each other from a distance. There had been pain in that yearning, of course there had, in the desperate need to be together, to voice the things they could barely even articulate in their own minds, but it had been safe, at least. After all, it was impossible to lose something you didn’t have, but to have a taste of it, to hold it in your hand and feel it slip through your fingers, to watch it break apart before your eyes, that was true pain.

_I know you don’t want to hear from me at the moment but please, little one, don’t let the echo of a life you’ve never even lived destroy what you two have. It’s my fear you’re feeling, my pain, not your own. I shouldn’t have stayed with you for this long, we should have left a long time ago, if only we’d managed to find a way to leave you two to your lives, to your love, without a life from another world casting a shadow over you. That’s all I am, a shadow, residue from another time. What you’re feeling, this fear, the idea that the two of you together is impossible, it’s not real, don’t let it poison your mind the way it did mine. By the time I overcame it it was almost too late but you still have so much time, don’t let it run out, Zira, not over a fear that isn’t even your own._

_You’re right. _After he spoke, Zira felt what might have been a sigh of relief in his mind, but then he continued, and a feeling of hopelessness that felt like vindication spread through him. _I don’t want to hear from you. Not today._

***

“Angel?” Crowley called, kicking the door closed and shaking his head free from his sopping hood. He shrugged out of his jacket, one hand raking through his hair to sweep it off of his forehead, droplets of rain cascading onto the floor around him. Barnaby cantered over, rearing up to rest his paws heavily on Crowley’s thighs as he awaited the attention he was sure he deserved.

Crowley cradled the photo book in the crook of one arm, as he stroked Barnaby with his other hand and cast a quick glance around the living room. No Zira. He opened his mouth to call his name again but then the bookseller emerged from the bedroom, hands suspiciously clasped in front of his stomach, the way they always were when he was tempted to fidget.

“How was the gig rehearsal?” Zira asked lightly, though the tentative look in his eyes betrayed his casual tone. He sat down on the sofa, well, perched was the more appropriate way to describe the way he settled himself uneasily on the edge of the soft cushions, as if he wasn’t sure whether he had permission to sit.

“Fine.” Crowley raised an eyebrow and took a step towards the sofa, pausing where he stood when he noticed the empty shelf in the sideboard that had previously housed a small collection of some of Zira’s favourite books he’d read since moving in. He didn’t need Zira to say another word to know that they were about to have another one of the milestone talks he was usually so fond of. Only that time he wasn’t convinced it was going to be as enjoyable as the others. “What’s wrong, angel? What do you need to tell me?”

“I, er…” Zira trailed off, looking down at the stubborn sweet chilli sauce stain that he had tried and failed to remove from the living room rug after a tragic sweet and sour chicken ball incident. It was easier to look at that than to face Crowley, to look at the mounting panic in those eyes. Panic he had caused. Panic that was his fault. Panic that was down to nothing but his own pathetic fear. “I suppose we need to have a talk. A little overdue, really. Wasn’t sure how to bring it up, if I’m honest.”

“Honest.” Crowley repeated the word, lifted it at the end as if it was almost, but not quite, a question.

Before Zira had a chance to speak again, the dog walker dropped a black book onto the coffee table and disappeared into the bedroom. His footsteps fell silent and Zira closed his eyes, realising with the startling clarity of hindsight that he had made a grave mistake. _You were right,_ he thought, to nobody in particular, _I should have told him the day I got the e-mail. What was I thinking, keeping this from him?_

“What is this, angel?” Crowley emerged a moment later, one hand brought up to rest against his temple while the other was wrapped around the handle of a black leather holdall that contained the clothes Zira had packed earlier that day. “Are you moving in with Raphael? I…get it, if you need space. The holiday, I know it might have been too much too…”

“Oh, no no no. It’s not that at all. I had a wonderful time with you. It’s not that I need space, it’s nothing like that.” Zira stood up then, rushed to Crowley’s side and peeled his fingers away from the case, taking it from him and resting it on the ground between them. He brought one hand to Crowley’s waist, smiling brightly as he sensed a flash of hope; _that_ was what Crowley was worried about, that he was moving in with somebody else because he needed space. Well, that was easy enough to overcome, given that it wasn’t the case at all. All he needed to do was explain the situation and it would all be okay, they could get on with enjoying their last night living together…for the time-being, Zira thought, with a little inward grin as he let his thoughts roam to that imaginary townhouse by the park that he dared to dream about when he gave his mind permission to run wild. _Perhaps_, he thought to himself, _I was just being silly earlier, perhaps everything is going to be fine after all. _“I’m not moving in with Raphael, my love, or anybody else. I’m moving back into the shop. It’s ready, you see, I picked up the keys this morning. See?”

He pulled the neat brass keys out of his pocket, jangled them in front of Crowley and laughed as he brandished the ADT key fob. It turned out all it took for him to join the twenty first century and install a security system was to lose absolutely everything he had ever owned. Still, at least he wouldn’t have to venture downstairs with a hefty Tolstoy if he heard a bump in the night any more. Although, if he hadn’t, would he and Crowley have even been standing there having that conversation?

“The shop is…ready?” Two sharp furrows appeared between Crowley’s dark brows as he frowned, confusion etching itself across his features, his lips pursed as he tried to make sense of the idea that everything could have happened so quickly. “But didn’t they give you any notice? How could it be ready so soon? The last you heard they were still waiting to fit the bathroom, weren’t they?”

“Oh, you see…they, er, it was the last day of our holiday and, well, I didn’t want to put a dampener on things. I rather thought me bringing up the idea of moving out wouldn’t be the _best_ end to…”

“You’ve known about this since Cornwall?” Crowley asked, feeling heat in his cheeks, gesturing first to the holdall on the ground and then to the empty bookshelf. “It looks like you’re packed already.”

“I thought perhaps I would start taking things across to the shop in the morning, but if tonight is our last night together I hoped we could…”

“Were you even going to say goodbye?”

Zira stammered the first few words of his sentence, swallowed deeply to gather the courage to continue. He had noted the bloom of pink in Crowley’s cheeks, the spreading flush of red peeking out from the neck of his jumper. “I was going to say goodbye to you, of course I was. This is a good thing, Crowley. I can get out of your hair, you know, give you your space back, everything can get back to normal.”

“Oh, oh I see. Everything’s back to normal for you so that’s it? Back to the bookshop like nothing happened here, like we aren’t anything?”

“Of course we were.”

“_Were?!_”

“Are. We are. You know what I meant. I’m getting my words muddled. Look…”

“You’ve really known about this the whole time? All week? You’ve been _off_ with me ever since we got back. At least now I know why. I’ve been going crazy, angel, trying to work out what I’ve done wrong, if it was the holiday or me or something else that mystifyingly displeased you.”

“You haven’t done anything wrong, I promise. There’s no need to get angry, Crowley.” Zira leaned closer to him, index finger and thumb pressed to the dog walker’s cheek and jaw.

“Don’t.” The word came out like a single bullet, as Crowley jabbed a warning finger at Zira and stalked past him towards the window, hands splaying out across the windowsill as he let the news wash over him and tried to temper the anger that had begun to pound around his body. He had always had a short fuse, would lose his sense of self during conflict. He would lash out, to his shame, say the things that he knew would hurt just to get a reaction, to see a flicker of emotion, enough to know he still meant _something _even when his mind was telling him he was worthless, that he was about to be abandoned. Again.

_Not today_, he promised himself, _don’t do this today, not to him. _His breathing calmed, and he felt that anger pulse away. But then Zira chose that moment to speak again.

“We both knew this wasn’t permanent, please don’t be upset with me.” Zira’s voice came quietly but that didn’t make his words hurt any less.

_How is he making this my fault? Why is it my responsibility that this is turning unpleasant? I haven’t done anything. He’s the one who sprung this on me, he’s the one who…_

_Right, little one, I’m going to stop you there. Consider this an intervention. How do I make this nice and succinct? Shut up before your mind runs away with you. Tell him you’re happy for him, ask if he needs any help moving his things out, and enjoy your last night together. This is the point of no return, take a moment to calm yourself down, go into the bathroom if you need to so you don’t get tempted to let that metaphorical barbed tongue loose. Don’t lash out and suffocate him because you’re panicking. You won’t like the outcome, trust me on this._

_Trust you? You’re the one who said he wouldn’t leave me, that things would be fine, why would I trust anything you say any more?_

_Listen to me…_

_Oh, fuck off. I’m sick of listening to you._

He shut the voice out then, heard it attempt to get through to him again but it was as if a barrier had been slammed between them. Everything was muffled, just white noise along with everything else. There was only one thought in Crowley’s mind. _He’s leaving, he’s leaving you, just like you knew he would._

“I’m not _upset_. I’m not surprised either.” Crowley’s voice was nothing but a hiss, the words as smooth as glass, as sharp as it too.

“What is that supposed to mean?”

At the sound of Zira’s murmured question Crowley turned, stalking back towards the bookseller, getting closer with every word until there was barely any distance between them at all. Except there was. There was a yawning cavern of rotting space between them where days before there had been only softness, only love.

“Do you know what an idiot I am, Zira? I had actually let myself start to believe that I might be good enough for you. Because I was good enough, wasn’t I? For a while, at least. I was good enough when you needed a place to live, when you didn’t have anybody else. Because you didn’t, did you, have anybody else? When you wanted somebody to fuck you until you forgot about your lonely life, your little life, I was good enough then, wasn’t I? When you wanted a little toy to show off to your rich, important friends, I was good enough for that. But now you don’t need me any more? Now I am what I always was: not good enough to be worth knowing.”

“Crowley…” Zira trailed off, swallowing tightly as he looked down, hastily wiping tears away from his cheeks with the back of one hand. “Please don’t…please don’t tell me you believe any of what you just said. I did need you, and I will always be grateful that you were there for me.”

“I don’t want you to be here because you need me, I want you to be here because you want to be, you know that. You used to _want_ to be here.” _Please don’t do this, angel. Don’t leave me here alone. Please. Why am I doing this, why am I letting this get out of control? Stop it. Stop talking. _But words were coming out of his mouth as if he didn’t have any control over them. All of the dark, twisted thoughts his brain dreamed up to torture him with, they were all out there, spoken aloud, driving them apart as if that was exactly what they had been laying in wait for all that time.

When the voice in Zira’s mind spoke to him there was something there the bookseller had never sensed in it before. Fear. He was used to fear in his own thoughts but that voice, the side of him that was brave and steady, he had never heard it sound that scared before, as if it was desperately clinging onto something it couldn’t bear to lose.

_I need you to listen to me, Zira, and I need you to trust me. Do not run away from him. He’s not angry, he’s scared. Hiding inside those words makes him feel less vulnerable than telling you the truth, that he’s been dreading this day for weeks in case you walk out tonight and don’t come back. I told you he…No, it doesn’t matter now. You were going to tell him you love him tonight, weren’t you? You still could, it’s not too late. It might help._

_No, if I do that now it will always be tied to this fight, as if I’m only saying it to pacify him. I can’t stay here, not after that. If that’s what he really thinks of me…_

_He doesn’t, please believe me. I told you before, all of this…this whole fight, it’s not you two, it’s…it’s an echo. It’s just like it was before._

_Stop it. Stop talking to me about echoes. Echoes of what? Another time, another world? It doesn’t make any sense. You keep preaching to me about honesty, where’s your honesty? If all of this is just an echo then tell me what it means. Be honest with me, as it’s so important to you._

There was silence but it had weight behind it. The voice was thinking, Zira could tell, weighing up its next move. _My next move_, he corrected himself, _we’re one and the same. It’s just a…defence mechanism, a way for me to feel less vulnerable. I’ve been hiding in it the same way Crowley hides in anger._

It spoke, a heartbeat later, but there was a sense of finality, as if it knew it could never do what Zira asked of it. One last request, and then it was gone.

_Don’t take me away from him, please._

“I knew you would do this.” Crowley paced backwards, lazily rolling his eyes as if Zira’s silence was all the confirmation he needed. “Before this even started I knew you were like everybody else. Judging me, seeing me as something…less than, something wrong.”

As he had seen a flash of something in Crowley’s eyes, something that might have been demonic, or might have just been all the bitter fear of a wounded animal, Zira felt something unleashed in his own self. It was the shattering of a wall, the breaking of a dam, and suddenly all the frustration he had quietly packed away for so many years came pouring out in a voice so loud and furious, so filled with pain, that he barely recognised it as his own.

“Stop it! Stop all of this. Stop blaming me for everything bad that’s ever happened to you. Stop goading me into leaving you just to see if I’ll stay. Stop searching for a problem that isn’t there and projecting it onto me. It’s too much. It’s like you want me to fix you when you aren’t even broken. Stop making it my responsibility to resolve everything bad that’s ever happened to you. I can’t do that. I can’t be that person. Nobody can. I don’t know what you want me to do. I just know that nothing I do is enough, you’re always going to doubt me. It’s too…it’s too much. It’s all too much. It’s all getting out of control, it’s too fast… You go too fast for me, Crowley.”

Crowley staggered back a step, as though the force of Zira’s words had knocked him backwards. They haunted him, every one of them, because every one of them was true. But it was those last words, he knew, that would keep him up into the daylight hours night after night, the words that would replay in his mind when everything else had faded into obscurity. “Of course this is how it ends. I always knew you’d leave me. It was a foregone conclusion, just like everything else.”

“Would you _stop_ saying that? Stop acting as though everything is already determined, as though you don’t have any choice in how your life pans out. You sound like me, like who I was before you taught me there was anything different. Nothing is decided for you and nothing is a foregone conclusion. The only person in control of your life is you, Crowley.”

“Except I’m not, am I?” Crowley laughed but it was a scratch, something that was supposed to leave blood in its wake. “You’re the one in control, you’re the one making the decisions, not me. You didn’t even tell me. You were going to just…leave.”

“I was never going to leave you, for what it’s worth,” Zira said hurriedly, as if he needed to get the words out without interruption. He looked away from Crowley, brushed away fresh tears and bit his lip to give himself something to focus on other than the thickness in his throat. He disappeared into the bedroom and when he returned a moment later he was holding something in his arms. It was the book Crowley had given him for Christmas, and he was cradling it as if it was the most precious thing he owned.

“Don’t know why you bothered to even go back for that.” Crowley nodded down towards the book, then fixed his gaze on Zira’s eyes. In that moment there was no Anthony, no fast-paced, loose-hipped dog walker. There was only something dark standing in his place. Something evil. “You should have left it to burn just like everything else.”

Zira fell silent, tightened his grip on the book in his arms as if he was scared the thing wearing Crowley’s face might take it from him. He opened his mouth, and for a moment his eyes looked determined, as if hope might be residing in their depths, but then he let his breath out as a sad sigh, as if there was no fight left in him, as if there was nothing left in him at all. He picked up the leather case and left, pulling the door gently closed between them.

“Goodbye, Crowley.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hi chums! How are you all? Hope you've all have a very splendid week and are starting to feel suitably festive if you're that way inclined.
> 
> We're back in angst-ville just in time for the final stretch of Part II, with only three chapters left to go (in case I didn't mention it here before, there is going to be a Part III). The next chapter is coming on Tuesday!
> 
> I hope you enjoyed this one, if enjoyed is the right word. 7000 words on the self-destructive tendencies of anxiety took it out of me a bit so trust and believe I will imminently be submerging myself in a bath. With all the bath bombs, in Aziraphale's honour 😂.
> 
> Anyway, what are you all up to this weekend? I've got an early Christmas celebration on the cards so, as per every life update I've given you for the last two months 😂, there's mulled wine and mince pies in my immediate future.
> 
> <3


	45. Crash Land

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “We don’t have to talk,” Raphael said, voice quieter than Zira had ever heard it, which made him want to cry all the more.

**March. Crowley’s Flat, London.**

A tear splashed onto Zira’s face, covering his chin and most of his nose until the bookseller’s smile was reflected back at double the size. Crowley tugged his sleeve down over one thumb and wiped the droplet away from the photo he was staring down at in the book that was resting against Barnaby’s back.

He had begun to feel as though he had become a factory of tears in the three days since Zira had given him that look of absolute heartbreak and left. And that had been it. He hadn’t come back. He hadn’t called. He hadn’t sent an overly formal text. There was still hope for a letter, Crowley reasoned, but he hadn’t put much stock in the idea, given that Sammy was under strict instruction to alert him immediately if he spotted an envelope bearing Crowley’s address that was adorned with that telltale swirling handwriting.

He had to face up to the realisation swirling around his brain that he’d been trying to ignore: Zira might have started the argument but he had finished it. Both the argument and the relationship. He had had everything he’d always wanted but his utter disbelief that he deserved to be so happy had pushed and pushed it to breaking point, and then it _had_ broken, inevitably, like all things do when pushed beyond their limits.

_Remember his face? The way it fell when you showed him what you really are? When he looked inside and saw everything you try to hide away? You can’t hide it, though, not forever, not from me._

It was a black thing, that snarl, a stain, a streak of dirt in his mind, something that might have been poison. He had felt it before, the echo of it, something coiled but something passive, as if it was waiting, as if it already knew the perfect time to rise up and strike. And it had chosen its moment so carefully, waited until he was at his most suggestible, when Zira was at his most breakable. A sentence or two, that was all it had taken. How strange that so few words could unpick everything they had spent so many months stitching together.

Crowley shook his head, grimacing, buried the voice as deeply as he could. It fell quiet. For a while.

The flat felt like a stretch of infinite space without the bookseller’s clutter filling it to the brim with books and bow ties and those little brown bags that the expensive cakes he loved so much came in. He had always wanted just a little bit more space but, in the wake of Zira’s emotional departure, he wanted nothing more than for the flat to feel cosy again, to feel like a home.

He heaved out a dramatic sigh of anguish, one finger resting against Zira’s hair in a picture he’d taken of them in Cornwall. The little statue he’d accidentally won at the auction was balanced on his outstretched palm between them, and they were both grinning with the sort of unrestrained happiness that left one’s smile more gums than anything else. He closed the book, setting it down on the coffee table and then running a hand down Barnaby’s back. The dog was splayed across his thighs, covering both his jeans and the sofa in hair. What did it matter? He rested his cheek against Barnaby’s shoulder, as a few more tears slipped silently out. He felt the knot of scar tissue beneath the dog’s fur, which only made him cry harder as he hugged Barnaby close and closed his eyes. _At least I have you, my boy. Always._

_Don’t write Zira off just yet, mate. This is how it goes with him. He’ll come back to you. He just needs time. It will all work out for you two in the end. Have faith. _There was a gagging sound in Crowley’s head that sounded a lot like a retch, and then the voice spoke again._ Can’t believe I just said the f-word._

Crowley opened his eyes as a flash of relief warmed his chest. The voice. The one that felt so close it could only have been a part of him, the voice that had tried to shout the loudest, had tried so hard to make itself heard, the one that had preached patience. It was back. It hadn’t spoken a word since the day of the argument and he had begun to fear that it had left him at the same time Zira had.

_No_, it thought, as if it could read his thoughts, which, of course, it could. _I haven’t gone anywhere. Regrettably. You’re stuck with me. For now, anyway._

_How do you always know what I need to hear? How do you…I mean, how does my…_

_I know trust is a sensitive topic right now but I need you to trust me when I say I am not, never have been, never will be, your dick._

_But you know things nothing else could know, you always know what to say…_ Crowley trailed off then, as a wild thought took root in his brain and his mouth dropped open in absolute wonder. _No. It couldn’t be…_

He looked down at the dog laying in his lap, at the long straight snout that ended in a black, perpetually wet nose, at the chestnut eyes that were, as the realisation occurred to him, trained carefully on his face. His canine companion, the constant source of optimism, routine, and unconditional love in his life, who had known how to cheer him up, or soothe his soul, or restore his faith in the universe since the day Crowley had brought his tiny form home in a cardboard box and let him curl up next to him on the sofa, _just this one time_.

_…Barnaby? Is that…is that you?_

_Oh, you are such a bloody idiot._

Crowley blushed, exhaling heavily as he felt irritation flush in his cheeks. _Shut up, I just wanted to rule out every eventuality._

_Every eventuality? You’ve spent months insisting I’m your dick, and now my dog is the best you can come up with? He hasn’t even been here for half of our…chats._

_Sorry, your dog?_

There was a pause and then the voice spoke again, though its tone was light enough to arouse Crowley’s suspicion.

_Well, my dog, your dog, let’s not split hairs._

_Er, no, I think this is exactly the thing to split hairs over. Barnaby is my dog. End of discussion._

_A minute ago you were so sure I was you, why the sudden change of heart?_

_I’ve got more important things to do than try and make sense of your bloody…riddles._

_Of course, yeah, sure. What’s next on the agenda? Throwing yourself dramatically onto the bed and seeing how much of Zira’s scent is left on the pillow? No, I don’t have that scheduled in for at least another half an hour. Is it time to cry in the shower and imagine everything you could have done differently? You haven’t done that yet today._

_Oh, piss off. Sometimes you’re so nice to me and sometimes you’re…sometimes you’re just an arsehole. You don’t need to kick me, I’m already down._

_I’m just saying, maybe if you’d listened to my advice we wouldn’t be in this situation._

_We? There is no we. There’s just me and…whatever you are. A hijacker I never asked for._

_Now you’re getting it. For what it’s worth, this isn’t how I thought things would turn out either. Six thousand years I’ve been waiting and what happens? I end up sharing a body with Rage-Pants McIdiot._

“Listen to me.” Crowley eased Barnaby off of his lap, standing up as he spoke aloud to the voice for the first time. “Now is not the time to take the piss. My world is crumbling around me and all you can is moan at me. _It’s been six thousand years, oh, my angel, we were supposed to be together. _Blah blah blah. Can we talk about me for a minute?”

_Oh, please. Please, let's talk about you. We never do that._

“I’m serious, you’ve got about ten seconds to tell me who the hell you are and why you’re such a dickhead or I’ll…”

_All right, all right, since you asked so nicely. But you asked, remember? Buckle up. Are you buckled?_

Crowley stood in silence. The voice waited in silence. Finally, Crowley rolled his eyes. “Yes, I’m buckled. This is ridiculous. Madness.”

_It’s not madness. Madness is the demon who fell in love with an angel._

Crowley sighed, tapping his toe against the floor. “One last time, if you’re not my dick and you’re not Barnaby then what the hell are you?”

There was a deep breath in Crowley’s head and then words began to swirl in his mind as surely and desperately as if they’d been brewing for millennia.

_Again, can’t stress this enough, buckle up. Okay. I’m the demon Crowley, Serpent of Eden, Tempter of Humanity, who fell in love with the Principality Aziraphale six thousand years ago. Well, I wasn’t always a demon. Used to be an angel. Funny old world, isn’t it? Helped create the world, actually. Oh, before I forget, water your bloody plants from below, I’m begging you. Where was I? Oh, yes, helped create the world. Well, not this world. Aziraphale created this world. Created you two as well, in our image. You’re welcome for the cheekbones, by the way. The other world, where we came from… Well, I guess we didn’t really come from that world exactly. We just worked there. Remote working, you could call it. Hell was my head office. Used to be heaven I reported to, of course. But then…got a bit caught up in, well, I guess that doesn’t matter now. Anyway, used to be an angel, made all the green stuff on Earth, pissed off Gabriel one too many times. Fell a bit. Fell a lot, really. Seem to spend a lot of time falling, either from heaven to hell, or in love with Aziraphale. Worth it, though, all of it. The things I’ve had to do to… Anyway, getting sidetracked. Short version: Just a demon. Not your dick. Hi there, body buddy. Surprise!_

Crowley looked up at the ceiling. He looked down at the front of his jeans. He looked across at Barnaby. Barnaby looked back at him. He shook his head, closing his eyes and pinching the bridge of his nose as he breathed out a weak laugh. “Imagination running bloody wild, as always. Textbook stress response. Must be. I don’t have time for this. This is ridiculous. Barnaby, be a good boy. Nethers, back in your box, and take your stories with you. An angel and a demon, in what universe would that ever work? I guess I should say thanks, it’s the first thing that’s made me laugh for days. The Serpent of Eden… Think a lot of yourself, don't you, little man?”

***

**March. Z. Fell and Co., Soho.**

“You haven’t touched your temaki.”

Zira pushed the dish of sushi away, could barely even look at it. Every time the steaming parcels of deliciousness entered his periphery his mind wandered to the nights he and Crowley had spent leaning against each other and laughing as he tried and failed to teach the dog walker how to wield chopsticks without suffering the fate of dreaded soy sauce splashes on every item of clothing he was wearing. Lately everything in his periphery led back to Crowley. Every head of red hair that bobbed past the shop windows, every dog barking in the street outside, every guitar riff from the songs he had learned, in desperation, to listen to on his phone. Sometimes they were too much, the memories, too sharp, too hot, the searing scorch of fire burning away skin until nothing but bone was left behind. In those moments he had to turn his back on the world, to look away, to hide inside himself. The memories didn’t disappear, not completely, but for a moment they might be dulled, if he was lucky.

“I’m not hungry.”

“Well, I’ll be damned, it must be the end of days.” Raphael raised two dark eyebrows and politely averted his gaze as Zira sucked in a breath that hitched at its peak. “Sorry. Not the time, is it?”

The hardest thing, Zira had realised, about delivering the news that he and Crowley had parted ways was the pure disbelief he found in the recipients’ faces. When he had told Raphael and Luci the day before, there had been a heartbeat, a drawn-out, soul-crushing sprawl of time, when they hadn’t believed him, had thought it was a joke they didn’t fully understand, as if he would deliver the punchline any moment. There was no punchline, of course, just a long, stinging blink as he forced away tears and gave a tiny little nod, one canine digging into his bottom lip.

Luci hadn’t said very much at all, which was worryingly uncharacteristic. Instead they had enveloped Zira in a hug, the kind that you couldn’t do anything other than melt into, the kind of hug that summoned tears, that tugged whatever last shred of emotion you’d been holding back to the surface. That was the first time he had cried since he had left, the first time it had felt truly real. He had said it aloud, given it a name, shared it with people who loved him. It was something that was no longer just between Crowley and himself.

“I’m sorry, little one, I’m so very sorry.” Luci had pulled back, held his face in their hands and wiped away his tears with a pristine handkerchief Raphael had passed them, wordlessly, as he watched Zira with cautious concern.

He hadn’t stayed for long, hadn’t even had the energy to finish drinking the tea they’d made him. He’d said his goodbyes and slipped back to Soho, to lock himself away in the empty shop and hiss hateful words at himself.

He hadn’t seen another person until Raphael had knocked on the windows of the shop the next afternoon and hopefully held up a brown paper bag. Their weekly lunch. Like clockwork. He’d forgotten all about it. Hadn’t noted the day, or the time. Had he had breakfast that morning? Yes. Some dry toast. He remembered looking at the butter dish for a moment before shaking his head. _You don’t deserve butter._

In any other situation he would have laughed at his method of self-flagellation amounting to dairy-based deprivation, but since that night in Crowley's flat when he’d picked up his little case of new clothes and fled, nothing had seemed very humorous at all.

“We don’t have to talk,” Raphael said, voice quieter than Zira had ever heard it, which made him want to cry all the more.

_Stop being so kind to me, _was what he wanted to say, wanted to ask the man to go, to leave him alone. He didn’t, though. “It’s a bit late for talking. That’s what I should have done days ago, it’s not talking that caused all of this.”

Raphael sat back in his chair, dug his fork into the rice bowl he had cupped in one hand, and waited. He was a man of many words, that booming voice that could find an echo in the smallest of spaces, but he knew when silence was needed, when it was time to listen. For all of the years Raphael had known him, Zira had held back his words, turned them over in his mind and weighed up their outcome before speaking; perhaps, the man reasoned, it was time for him to speak them aloud. And then, to Raphael's surprise, he did.

“Everything was perfect, Raphael, you saw us together. Well, it wasn’t perfect, but that’s what made it perfect, to me, anyway. More real. As if it might actually be something we could build to last. And my own fear tore it down. I could have explained things, I could have told him how I felt, I could have been honest with him. Honesty. Everybody always preaches honesty. Trust. Communication. Why did I think hiding this was ever going to… I just thought, I don’t know, I don’t know what I thought. I thought if I hid it then, perhaps… I’m so _stupid_. I thought if I hid it then I could just delay it, that I could think of a way to tell him that might not hurt, might not ruin what we have. Had. What we had. And the more I hid it and the closer the day came, the harder it became to find the words to tell him, and so I waited even longer, buried my head in the sand like a scared little boy. What did I think was going to happen, springing it on him like that? And I didn’t even get a chance to tell him, even when he was standing in front of me I couldn’t find the words, not the words I wanted to say: that I didn’t want to go, that I wanted him to come with me, that I wanted us to make our own home, together. I saw the flicker in his eyes when he realised what was happening, when he came out of the bedroom with the bag…and still, I blindly thought everything would work out. Stupid, idiotic, blind faith. What did I think? That…that a miracle was going to fix it? Divine intervention? That some higher power would whisk away the hurt and it would all be okay, the Crowley would _understand_, that somebody else could do that hard work without me having to even open my mouth to explain?”

When Zira stopped speaking he uttered a sigh of frustration, slamming one hand flat against the table as if it might make him feel any better. It didn’t. He looked up then, head drawing back when he registered Raphael’s presence, as if he’d all but forgotten he wasn’t alone.

“Zira Fell,” Raphael said gently, placing his hand on top of Zira’s and giving it a squeeze of solidarity, of love, of understanding. “I think that’s the most I’ve ever heard you say without pausing for breath. You are not a scared little boy, you are one of the bravest people I’ve ever known. You are not stupid, and you are not idiotic. Yes, your judgement is terrible, and your brain to mouth co-ordination needs work. But you made a mistake. You’re human. One mistake doesn’t have to mean the end of everything. You can learn something from this. After all, which one of us has never made a mistake that we feared might cost us everything we hold dear?”

*******

**Two Days Later.** ****

**Mick’s House. Crystal Palace, London.**

“It’s shit, Little Brother. It’s really, really shit.”

Crowley pressed his temple against Sammy’s chest and closed his eyes, hoping that would somehow make his crying less obvious to the group, as if it might silence the little shuddering breaths that came every time he gulped in air. Sammy’s arm was warm against his waist, his friend’s other hand resting against his hair. It wasn’t Sammy’s usual position to be so physically close, preferred to hide his affection behind jokes and well-timed insults, but he had been through enough heartbreak of his own to know that sometimes, while it couldn’t fix a broken heart, a warm hug from somebody who loved you was akin to a tonic, something almost medicinal in its restorative properties.

It was something Crowley appreciated more than he would ever be able to tell his friends, that they were unanimous in their agreement that heartbreak was an awful thing, something to wallow in, for a time, at least. They hadn’t told him to _cheer up_, that there were _plenty more fish in the sea_, that _maybe it’s for the best_; they understood that what he needed more than anything else was an ear to listen to him, a pair of arms to dispense a hug, and a group of people who adored him unconditionally who wouldn’t let him wallow alone.

_I hope Zira has this_, Crowley thought, as he heard Mick pad into the room, quietly announcing that dinner would be ready in a few minutes. _I hope he isn’t hiding away in the shop, alone. I hope he knows how many people he has who love him. I hope he’s okay._

He hadn’t told the band, not at first, had wanted to wait until their rehearsal was over before taking up the little bit of a time they had together with his own woeful self-indulgence. It hadn’t quite gone to plan, though, when he’d begun to play so furiously and violently in one of the songs Lily had planned for their next setlist that he’d ripped a fingertip callus and a spray of blood had dotted the floor of Mick’s garage. He’d barely felt it, the pain, just a wetness that had left his fingers sliding too easily across the slick guitar strings. It was only when Dan had glanced back at him that he’d stopped singing, slotting the microphone back into the stand before he’d closed the distance between them, prying Crowley’s bleeding hands away from the guitar and holding them still until they stopped trembling. He hadn’t known when he’d started crying, whether it was frustration or loneliness or the song’s lyrics hitting too close to home, or perhaps all three, but suddenly he was leaning against Dan’s shoulder, soaking the sleeve of his jumper as he told them that Zira had gone, that it was all his fault, that he’d pushed him away.

They’d cut their rehearsal short, bundling Crowley into the house and settling down around him like a protective familial forcefield, while he filled in the blanks and told them everything, even the parts that left him feeling cold inside, ashamed at his own lack of self-control.

“I think you’re being a bit harsh on yourself, mate,” Dan said earnestly, leaning out of his chair and press a cool bottle of beer into Crowley’s hand. He took it gratefully, wrapping his fingers around the slim glass neck, felt beads of condensation burst against his skin. “He should have told you all of this days ago.”

Above him, Sammy nodded, his chin ruffling Crowley hair. “I think Zira’s great, you know I do, but this isn’t all on you, Little Brother. Maybe you should have heard him out, sure, but you can’t take all the blame. It was both of you, these things usually are.”

“The things I said to him… I didn’t even mean them, I just wanted… I wanted him to tell me they weren’t true, I wanted to hear him say he wanted to stay.” Crowley sighed, wished idly that it was possible to exhale guilt as easily as if it was surplus air.

“Zira not telling you about the shop wasn’t about you, or how he feels about you, and I know how it would have made you feel, I know how it would have looked and I know why you did what you did. You lash out when you’re hurt, you push things. That’s what you do. Maybe Zira’s the opposite, maybe he pulls back. Neither of you are wrong, you just…clashed.” When Lily spoke from the other end of the sofa, where her hands were resting on Crowley’s calves, stretched out across her lap, her voice was quiet, cautious, as though her thoughts were still half-formed, but as she continued it grew louder, until her words were so sure and persuasive that Crowley almost believed her.

“This doesn’t have to be the end, Little Brother.” Dan clapped a hand against his knee, gave him a reassuring smile as he glanced down at the gold band on his own left hand. “Remember when Priya kicked me out and I slept on your sofa for a week?”

Despite himself, Crowley snorted out a little laugh. “When the Big Juggz subscription came out of your joint account and she wouldn’t believe it was for coffee beans. At least that was just a misunderstanding.”

“So is this,” Sammy insisted, looking across at Dan for confirmation. He responded dutifully, nodding his head in encouragement. “Okay, it’s a bit more serious than the Big Juggz debacle but one blowout does not the breakdown of a perfect match make. You two have something bigger than one fight, I saw it the first night you were together, _before_ you were together, in fact. I said you were sickeningly happy, and you were, god, I was so jealous of you two that night. You just looked…right, as if you were always supposed to be standing side by side, sharing wine, and judging everybody else, even though you pretended not to. If you think it’s worth fighting for then you can’t give up, not now.”

“He’s right,” Lily said, although agreeing with Sammy looked like it almost caused her physical pain. “You can’t throw in the towel after one argument. Where would any of us be if we gave up at the first sign of difficulty? Forget relationships for a minute, where would _we_ be? Part of loving someone is learning how to keep loving them even when you don’t like them very much.”

There was silence then, as if each of them needed a moment to mull over Lily’s words of wisdom. It was Lily herself who broke the silence, as if she couldn’t stand the pensiveness in the room any longer. With one finger slotted tightly between Crowley’s shin and the hem of his jeans she wiggled it as far as she could, then gave up with a roll of her eyes. “Even bloody tighter than usual.”

“I don’t think now’s the time, Lily.” Sammy drew himself up, as if he couldn’t fathom cracking a joke at such a serious moment.

“Oh, shut up, Sammy. Since when have you been so bloody pious?”

Sammy clasped his hands together as if deeply in prayer, looking across at Lily from underneath eyelids almost closed in faux-reverence. “Since you graced us with your presence and I experienced true enlightenment.”

“See, this is what she meant.” Dan laughed, as Lily visibly weakened and pushed Sammy gently on the shoulder. “You can still love someone even if you don’t like them for a moment, or an hour, or a couple of weeks. Every relationship has its peaks and troughs, you two are just in a trough, I bet.”

Crowley squinted to stare down the neck of his beer bottle, watching the amber liquid fizz steadily inside. “I hope you guys are right.”

“Of course we’re right, we’re your voices of wisdom,” Lily sing-songed, before she patted a vague drum beat on Crowley’s shins. “We’re all pretty good at break ups now anyway. How many have you coached me through? Double figures, at least. Some of them even on the same night.”

“Exactly. If you ever think you’re a disaster, at least you haven’t broken up with three people at the same party.” Sammy smiled fondly, remembering the famed night of Lily’s relationship purge, where she had travelled from room to room at a house party, dispensing ‘_it’s not me, it’s you, it’s definitely you_’ talks everywhere she went, leaving a trail of crushed spirits in her wake.

“Exactly, now kneel before your overlord of disaster.” Lily raised both eyebrows, as if she was challenging one of the others to out-disaster her. Sammy appeared to briefly consider contesting the title for a moment but seemed to concede that two divorces didn’t quite clinch the dubious honour.

“Food’s ready, have at it.” Mick appeared in the doorway, jabbing a thumb over his shoulder towards the kitchen, where the sweet smell of coconut and lemongrass wafted out and left them all salivating in anticipation. While Mick had spent the years dispensing his culinary wisdom to ensure his surrogate offspring learned how to assemble something more sophisticated than a microwave meal, there was nothing quite like a home-cooked dinner from the source of that wisdom himself. Lily, Sammy, and Dan scrambled to their feet, barging each other out of the way as they fought to get into the kitchen first. Left alone, Mick sat down next to Crowley, elbows resting against his long legs as he leaned in, voice soft. “How are you doing, poppet?”

“Shit.” Crowley shrugged, sitting up and burying his head against the sofa cushions, letting out a huff of annoyance at his own defeated state of mind. Despair didn’t sit comfortably inside him, especially when it lurked so close to the surface. He was used to it swirling in his depths but when it remained inside it was easy to lock it away; when he was wearing it on his sleeve, though, that was an entirely different matter. “Everything is shit, Mick. I had everything that I always told you I wanted, didn’t I? He only left three days ago and it already feels like a memory.”

“Don’t relegate it to the past tense so quickly. Give him time, give yourself some time too. Be kind to yourself, my boy. Nothing is ever too far gone to be saved, not if you believe in it.”

***

**The Shadwell House.**

“Are you keeping busy?” Tracy asked, giving Zira a look of maternal concern as she spooned a third serving of mashed potato onto his plate, which was already heaving with the second serving of mashed potato, and the fourth serving of peas. Peas were an important part of mending the heart. Apparently. “It’s always good to keep busy in times like this.”

“Yes,” he lied, then silently scolded himself. He’d done enough lying for one week. “No. Just work. Work and sleep. It passes the days, at least.”

“You can’t just spend eternity _passing the days_, Zira. You need to _do_ something, get yourself out of the house, do something other than get dragged to our house for dinner. What about your new friends, the girls you told us about last time?”

Zira nodded slowly, as if he was considering the idea of socialising with the aforementioned new friends. The truth was, he _had _had plans with Crowley’s groupies… _No_, he scolded himself again, _they have names. Clara and Bella, and you need to start using them before you accidentally call them groupies to their faces again_. He had arranged to meet the girls for brunch later that week but had hastily delayed things in the wake of his and Crowley’s break up. It wasn’t that he didn’t want to meet with the girls, he really did enjoy their company, but he couldn’t face a stretch of time pretending that everything was okay, or seeing the mirrored sympathy in their faces if he told them the truth. By the time the rearranged date rolled around he would have thought of something, he was sure, before the maddening realisation hit him a moment later: his blowout with Crowley hadn’t done anything at all to help change his ways. There he was, back to deflecting, back to delaying difficult conversations. _Will I ever change this stubborn mind of mine_, he thought?

_Try not to let it take six thousand years, that’s my advice, old bean._

_Yes, very astute. As always, thank you for your invaluable input._

_Well, I don’t wish to be insufferable but I did tell you that you…_

_I think we both know how that sentence is going to end and I think we both know I don’t need to hear it, do I, my good chap?_

“More carrots, dear?” Tracy cut through his train of thought then, scooping a heap of carrots on top of his mounting mountain of mashed potato. In lieu of advice that extended beyond _getting out there_, Tracy had fallen back into her usual strategy of helping a loved one through a difficult time: feeding them until they were too sleepy to think about whatever was worrying them. She had put forward a valiant effort and the dining room table was still groaning under the weight of serving dishes overflowing with delicious food, even though the three of them seemed to have been eating non-stop for hours.

At the head of the table, Shadwell was quietly tucking into his fourth plate of food, would pause between every few mouthfuls to give Zira a stern look, as if he was concerned their guest might burst into tears at any moment and he would be expected to be comforting.

Zira looked up at the empty chair opposite him, felt a sharp pang in his chest as that deep longing for Crowley tugged at him, as it did every time the dog walker crossed his thoughts. It wasn’t just that he had lost Crowley, although that was the part that cut the very deepest, but he had also lost every inside joke they had, every morning routine. He had lost the person who he could make so happy just by texting him a picture of an extraordinarily large dog he saw walk past the shop. He had lost Crowley’s family, the friends who had so sweetly adopted him as one of their own, near enough on sight, just because they’d sensed a kindred spirit. He had lost the person he could be stupid with, the person who made him dizzy with laughter whenever he fished out his trusty harmonica to wail along with the evening news. That bloody harmonica. That godforsaken, perfect dog walker. _God, I miss you so much._

It was dark outside by the time Zira mustered the energy to make his excuses and head back to the shop. The conversation had begun to run dry by that point. After all, there was only so much dancing around the forbidden topic that could be done before a blanket of awkwardness draped itself over every person present who was trying as hard as they could to avoid anything that could link back to Zira and Crowley’s break up.

“I’ll stop by soon, okay?” Tracy said cheerily, hooking a hand through the crook in his arm and squeezing his bicep, before slipping a bag heavy with leftovers over his forearm. “I’m sure there’s lots we can be getting on with in the shop, eh? Might take your mind off things, and at least you’ve got enough food for a few days, that’s something, isn’t it?”

“It is. Thank you, my dear friend.” Zira smiled, touched at the expression of love that ran far deeper than ensuring he was well fed. It was family, something unconditional, something that was there long before that heartbreak, and would be there for him long afterwards.

He turned back, gave Shadwell a curt nod as Tracy unlocked the door and pulled it open to usher him out into the brisk nighttime chill. To his surprise, the older man took a step closer to him, put a hand on his shoulder, just for a moment.

“You don’t have to be an island, son.”

***

**Crowley’s Flat.**

Crowley closed his eyes, eyelids twitching as another memory (no, not a memory; a dream, perhaps) formed hazily in his mind and pulled his thoughts away from the present. There was cruel laughter, the feeling of something cold deep inside his bones, and a yawn of loneliness that might have split him in two if Barnaby hadn’t taken that moment to leap up onto his lap and lick his cheek.

“Thanks, boy,” he murmured, fingers unsteady as he knotted them in the dog’s thick coat and tried not to think about what the nightmarish vision had meant. They had started on the night Zira had left, on that awful night when he had barely been able to do anything other than stare helplessly into the darkness and hope for sleep. It hadn’t come, though. At least, he thought it hadn’t, though he fact he had clearly been dreaming suggested he’d managed some sort of rest. They were haunting, the things he saw. Sometimes it was only darkness but sometimes, the worst times, he could see every terrible thing that left him with that bone-deep terror. And the loneliness, that was always there, that great wide ache that stayed long after the dreams had gone. It followed him wherever he went, stalking a step behind him like a cursed shadow, like something he could never shake off. Unlike a shadow, it didn’t disappear in the darkness, it _was_ the darkness, and in the deepest hours of the night he was too tired, too powerless to try and push it away.

_What does it mean, _he wondered, _what’s happening to me?_

There was a crackle on the other side of the room and the intercom burst to life before he could give those strange waking nightmares, those hellish echoes, any more thought.

“Zira?” he panted, thumb pressed tightly to the button.

“No, I'm sorry. It’s just me, little one. May I come in?”

A moment later Luci swept into the flat in a whirl of colour and energy, as they always did, whether they were waltzing into a supermarket or a party. The first thing they did was kick off their pinheel boots, the second thing was to shrug out of an ankle-length coat that had been tightly knotted at the waist, which they tossed over the arm of the sofa as casually and happily as if it wasn’t covered in Barnaby’s hair. Finally, the third thing they did was wrap both arms around Crowley’s shoulders and hug him close.

“I’m so sorry, I’m so sorry this happened to you both.” And then, after a breath, came the suggestion of the only thing known far and wide to cure all ills, or at least make them slightly less harrowing. “Shall I put the kettle on?”

Half an hour later Crowley found himself in a situation he never, in any eventuality, thought he would find himself in: nestled under a blanket with Luci’s shoulder pressed to his as they sipped tea and passed a tin of biscuits back and forth, musing which biscuit was the most superior of all.

“It’s the ginger and chilli, every time, absolutely unparalleled. I could taste every treat in the world and nothing would come close.” Luci closed their eyes, savouring the kick as they swallowed the last mouthful of biscuit and the heat of the chilli began to rise, never content to be forgotten so quickly.

“I don’t know, I think bourbons give them a run for their money,” Crowley offered, rooting around in the tin until he found another one of Luci’s favourites, silently handing it to them before he continued. “Thank you, for coming here, I mean. I know you two…I know your loyalty will fall with Zira, obviously, but I appreciate you checking in on me.”

Luci laughed, shaking their head. “There’s no loyalty about it. We care about you too, you know. We wouldn’t just stop caring because you and Zira are…going through a difficult time. And he wouldn’t want us to either. Honestly, you two are as stubborn as each other. Too stubborn to make the first move, too stubborn to apologise.”

“I'm not stubborn, but I can’t apologise if I don’t know how he feels, I can’t risk…”

Luci rounded on him then, eyes narrowing. “Now, you listen to me. You know as well as I do that Zira Fell is hopelessly in love with you, about as madly as you are with him. You know that man. Do you think anything other than love would have forced him out of his shell? To follow you literally to the depths of the city, just so he could stand alone and stare at you on stage? He ran to every vet surgery in the area when you were alone waiting for Barnaby, didn’t he? Do you think he’s ever been that brave in his life? Because if you don’t know, I can tell you. No, he hasn’t. Before you he was…afraid. Of everything, really. Of life, of love, of letting anything or anybody in. We’ve seen more of who Zira truly is since the day you two met than we did in any of the years that came before. You’re sitting on your sofa eating biscuits and crying, and I would lay money on the fact he’s sitting in bed eating cake and doing the very same thing at this very moment. You can keep eating biscuits and keep dehydrating yourself until you’re a husk who’s reached the end of the biscuit tin, or you can go after what you want, both of you, and believe me when I say I’m going to tell Zira exactly what I’ve just told you.” By the time Luci finished speaking they were near enough out of breath from the sheer frustration that had burst forth as they delivered their lecture of tough love.

When Crowley remained silent, as if he was still processing everything they had said, Luci snapped the lid back onto the biscuit tin and took his hand, turning to him again. Time to try a different approach, perhaps. A touch of solidarity to solidify that firm push in the right direction. “Raphael and I ended things once, did you know that? I thought we’d never find our way back to each other but we did, of course, in time. Time is what you need to give anything that’s worth holding onto. Patience, a little bit of hope, and time.”

Crowley looked up then, forehead wrinkling as if he couldn’t comprehend a lifetime in which Raphael and Luci didn’t come as an eternal pair, never to be torn asunder. “What did you do? How did you two pick up the pieces?”

“Oh, I’m afraid I drank myself to distraction and a did a string of outlandish things that would make you blush. Do as I say, not as I do, little one. Don’t ever do as I do, there’s no telling what trouble that could land you in." They laughed, running a hand through Crowley’s hair and giving him a soft smile, tinged with something that looked like pity, as if they knew everything that was to come. “There might be dark times. In fact, there will be, there always are, that’s the nature of existence. Dark and light, the grey spaces in between. When you find yourself in darkness look for the light. It might be a memory, or a hope, or some wild dream you barely even understand, but it will be there, somewhere. Hold onto it; it will help you find your way home.”

Luci left soon afterwards, after Crowley had fallen into contemplative silence, and they slipped away only after he had promised to call if he needed company.

“I’ll see you soon, little one, I’m sure.”

When Crowley slept that night he dreamed of roses and promises, of crying into a halo of golden hair in the darkness.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Good day, my friends! I hope your week has been going well so far and you're all able to start winding down for the festive period, or at least have some fun plans on the horizon amidst all the chaos.
> 
> The next (penultimate!) chapter is coming on Friday!
> 
> Thank you for all your amazing feedback on the last chapter - I'm sorry for angering so many of you 😂 but I hope you'll forgive me in time :D.
> 
> Much love and gratitude, as always <3


	46. All In

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> I think you see me through a different lens, mate, something that makes me better than I am. Who ever heard of somebody like me ever getting a fairytale ending, eh?

**March. The Devil’s Den, Islington.**

“Look, it’s not too late to change the set, Little Brother. I know the timing is shit. We could swap it out for your Disney death metal extravaganza, couldn’t we?” Lily patted Crowley’s knee, offering him a cheerful smile as he fiddled with his guitar, perfecting the tuning before they took to the stage. She heard silence from Sammy and Dan, and looked up to glare at them. “_Couldn’t we_?”

Dan looked back at her, aghast at the notion of ever letting Crowley’s dubious foray into musical mashups see the light of day, then caught on and nodded enthusiastically, if only to pacify her. “Absolutely, of course we can, anything for you, Little Bro. You just say the word.”

As Lily turned her attention back to Crowley, Dan and Sammy exchanged a mutual glance of fear, as if they were jointly hoping desperately that Crowley would not, in fact, just say the word.

“Don’t worry, guys.” Crowley sighed, weaving his plectrum between guitar strings and looking at each of them in turn. “The cursed extravaganza remains in the vault. Things aren’t that desperate yet. If Zira blanks me when I finally get up the guts to go to the shop…well, dust off your Ariel wigs.”

“Please, Zira. Please take him back.” Sammy closed his eyes, breathing the words into the room as if he was attempting to send a message to Zira through the ether.

Crowley kicked out one leg, black-booted toe knocking against Sammy’s ankle as he grinned. “I don’t know what you’re complaining about, you always say you haven’t got enough up top. Nice princess wig? Might be just the new look you need.”

As Sammy stared back as if he wasn’t sure whether or not he could get away with a sharp retort, the others dissolved into laughter and jumped in where Crowley left off, debating whether Sammy was more of a Belle or a Jasmine. He sat back on the creaky old sofa in the back room of the Den, smiling as he heard his best friends bickering, as was customary. It felt good to smile.

It had been eight days since the break up and the tight ache in his chest hadn’t subsided, though he had begun to grow accustomed to its presence. It was nestled somewhere between his fear of slowing down and that pit of loneliness that had flared back up in the wake of losing Zira; a trio of anxieties that seemed dug in for the long haul, claws firmly latched into him.

It was Mick’s gentle words of encouragement that had stuck with him most of all, his promise that _nothing is ever too far gone to be saved, not if you believe in it_.

_I do believe in it, _Crowley thought to himself. _I believe in him, I believe in everything we had, everything I dreamed of us having, everything we still could have, if he still believes in this, in us. In me._

Lily had been right when she had, so eloquently, described the timing of that evening’s setlist as _shit_. It was a medley of heartbreak, one song after another that spoke of loss and longing, and it would hurt to stand there on stage and play every chord, he knew it would. Perhaps, though, it was something necessary, a way to channel part of that grief into something shared. Perhaps there would be something cathartic in performing that pain in front of a crowd, perhaps they would find something in his playing, something they, too, had felt once upon a time, and would go on to feel again in the future, inevitably. After all, what better siphon of emotion had humanity ever created than words and melody, together as one?

***

_All of the plans we made_

_That never happened_

_Now your scent on my pillow’s faded_

_At least you left me with something_

***

Alone in the bookshop, Zira sighed.

He had spent most of the day sorting through the boxes of books that had arrived that week, shipped dutifully up to London after his and Crowley’s successful day at the auction in Cornwall. Some of the titles he had unpacked were those he’d been keenly awaiting the arrival of, knowing they would fly off of the shelves as soon as Z. Fell and Co. was reopened. Some of them, however, he had already begun to regret purchasing, those impulse buys that always seemed to accompany every sale, however hard he tried to stay focused. And some of them were a complete surprise, titles he had glossed over in the catalogue but had caught Crowley’s eye: job lots of 1950s mystery novels, or 1920s pulp fiction that he knew the dog walker had paid for out of his own pocket, simply because he couldn’t resist the idea of seeing a tattered copy of _Ladies in Hades_ rubbing shoulders with a first edition Thomas Hardy.

He looked down at the book in his hands, rolled his eyes at the cover, which was adorned with glamorously-illustrated women leered at by a handsomely devilish antagonist. _Ridiculous_, he thought, remembering how Crowley had stabbed a finger against the page of the catalogue, asking him how in the world he had been able to resist circling it. He sighed. Again. In recent days it seemed impossible for any thought of Crowley to enter his head and not be accompanied by a little exhale of sadness, as if every memory of him pushed a little more air out of Zira’s lungs.

Crowley. It seemed as though everything carried a whisper of him. Every book that Zira unpacked could somehow be traced back to him, whether it had been purchased in Tadfield, on that wonderful day when they had finally established their relationship, or in Cornwall, on that magical break that still felt like something of a dream, or even if it was just one of the many books he had purchased from a second-hand website, curled up on Crowley’s sofa as he carefully tiptoed into the digital world, the dog walker by his side holding his hand every step of the way.

It was merciless, the way Zira’s mind would taunt him with thoughts of happier times, even those times before they had realised what they felt was more than friendship. A business meeting in Shoreditch two days previously had left him thinking only of that night, that _awful_ night of speed dating, where he had found himself so disarmed by Crowley’s presence, so utterly overwhelmed with fear and joy at seeing him there that it could only ever have been love, looking back with the beauty of hindsight.

That day, of course, as he had sorted through newly acquired titles, scanning them into the online inventory and giving them a temporary home on his pristine bookshelves, Zira had thought of little else but those five days they had spent together in Cornwall. It had been pivotal in a way he had only just begun to realise, not least because it was where he had made the first in a lengthy series of costly mistakes. They had been so happy there, wandering across the beaches, Barnaby galloping back and forth, letting out joyful little barks whenever he discovered a new smell that he deemed worth reporting to his human, and his human’s human, of course. When the sky had grown dark each night they would walk the cliff paths again, marvel at how every landscape could be transformed when the light was taken away, grip onto each other’s hands as they stared up at the night and wondered at the infinite spray of stars, at how they might have come into being, at everything they might hold in their depths, all the secrets that only came to pass under the light of the moon.

_Never mind,_ he thought,_ now isn’t the time to give up hope, not yet_. He pushed another book onto the shelves. He knew the order was wrong. It didn’t make any sense, Crowley’s renegade titles side by side with his rare acquisitions. It wasn’t how they belonged but, even so, a little slice of chaos in the universal safety of a bookshop might not be such a bad thing.

***

_Put me to sleep, evil angel_

_Open your wings, evil angel_

***

Up on the grimy little stage at the front of the Den, Crowley thrashed an angry riff on his guitar and tried to swallow the wince of pain that flared in his torn fingertip, deepening with every chord. Mouth set in a grim line, he pressed his lips together to avoid sucking in a gasping breath as the song’s lyrics washed over him and he tried not to play that dangerous game of letting each and every word resonate far too closely for comfort.

They’d only reached the second song in their set when he realised Lily’s suggestion of swapping out their planned covers for the night would have been in his best interest. Still, it was too late for that, all he could do was grin and bear it. Although there was no grinning happening on the stage that night, not from Crowley or the others, who were shooting him casual glances between songs, peeking at him from their periphery to make sure they didn’t need to call an impromptu water break to hustle him off stage and out of the spotlight.

He had promised himself he wouldn’t spend his time on stage staring desperately into the crowd in the vain hope that he might find his gaze meeting the pair of blue eyes that tormented him every night. And he had kept that promise. For the first few moments, at least. A blend of curiosity and masochism has taken over then and he found himself alternating between staring down at his feet and squinting against the spotlights in search of a halo of blond hair and a pristine cream jacket standing out in the crowd. He didn’t find either, of course. There would be no romantic reunion after the show, no walking home together, hand in hand, giddy with the joy of resolution and water under the bridge. Zira hadn’t come. And Crowley hadn’t expected him to. Not really.

Instead, as the band played on and the crowd echoed each line back at them just a micro-second behind Dan, Crowley let his mind wander back to all the times Zira had been in the crowd, looking miraculously up at him as if he was something worth staring at. There had been that first night, back before he had known what it felt like to hold the bookseller in his arms, to pull him close and kiss him until they were both breathless. He had looked so scared, so small, as if he had fought in a hundred wars just to be there. Perhaps he had, Crowley reasoned, even if those wars had only played out in his own mind. Then the next time, when he had looked so happy and full of life that he might have been a different person all together. And the third time, would there be a third time? Would they find themselves in that position once again, Zira staring up as he stared down, a secret smile shared between them, promises of _later, I swear, the second I can get you alone_?

He shook away thoughts of the past, stowed them deep inside until he could revisit them later, punish himself as he dove headfirst into them, let himself revel in them for a moment, until he remembered that that might be as close as he ever got to that easy, soul-souring love again. _I miss you. I miss you so much. I hope you’ll forgive me. I hope it’s not too late._

_All you have to do is tell him. I know how scared you are. Believe me, I’ve felt it. I’ve felt it so many times. But it’s worth it, I swear to you, however hopeless it feels, however terrified you are, it’s worth it. He’s worth it. Promise me you won’t give up, please?_

_I wish I could dream this away. I wish I could fast forward t the part where this stops hurting. I wish I could be everything you think I am. I think you see me through a different lens, mate, something that makes me better than I am. Who ever heard of somebody like me ever getting a fairytale ending, eh?_

_Now that sounds a lot like the echo of me talking, not you. You are so much better than you know, little man. You are every single thing I should have been, if I hadn’t…pushed things too far. But you know something about that, don’t you, pushing things until they snap? Birds of a feather, as they say._

A sigh then, deep in his mind, laced with a chuckle of self-awareness, if disembodied voices could even be self-aware, Crowley wasn’t sure. In the days since that voice had become the only kind thing in his mind, he had stopped giving its origin too much thought, had stopped second-guessing what it might represent, what part of himself it might reflect. All he knew is that it treated him like a friend, that it was kind to him, and kindness was something he desperately needed.

***

_There’s only so much good a man can take_

_When he ain’t so good himself_

_You remind me of what I could have been_

_But that reminder ain’t much help_

***

_Zira, may I ask you something?_ The voice in Zira’s mind bloomed to life, asking the question so sweetly that the bookseller found himself answering before he even realised it had taken his attention away from the tape he was peeled slowly off of a box of books stacked up on top of the cash desk.

_You may. You sound very…passive, what’s the matter?_

_Honestly, nothing has to be the matter for me to be passive, my dear. _The voice stopped for a moment, collecting itself before it could devolve into its customary snippiness. It was as if it shook itself out, reminded itself it had made a promise to be sensitive. Kind, even. _I wanted to ask, if I might be so bold, but what is it you think might go wrong if you make the first move? With Crowley, I mean, of course._

_Oh, I’m mighty glad you asked. Giving credence to all of the hideous scenarios I dream up every other moment, why not, eh? Rejection, anger, severance. Might as well hit all three, mightn’t we?_

_There’s no need to be rude, Zira, I thought perhaps voicing your concerns might help alleviate them. A problem shared, so they say. After all, nothing seems quite so scary if you share it with a friend, does it?_

_A friend. Is that what we’ve become over these long months of bickering?_

_Yes, I rather think we have, don’t you?_

_Friends. _Zira repeated the word in his mind, found his lips curving up into the hint of a smile. It was only a trace, but it was there all the same. Progress. _Well, seeing as you asked me so politely, and seeing as we’re friends… My biggest fear is that he won’t want to listen to me at all, that I used up my last chance when I couldn’t even tell him how I felt on that night. I worry that he might hear my voice and lock his door, refuse to even see me, tell me that it’s too late, that I burned a bridge that was too fragile to ever be rebuilt. I’m worried he’ll never want to see me again, not even as a friend. I couldn’t bear to lose him, not completely. If all he wants from me is friendship then I won’t take it as something lesser, as something that doesn’t mean the same just because I occupy a different space in his heart. It’s not second place, friendship, it’s not. It’s still love, just a different sort of love, isn’t it?_

_Friendship can be as beautiful as any other love. Sometimes even more so. Sometimes it can be something even deeper, something that can stretch across a lifetime, or more. It isn’t that, though, what you two have. What you have is, what do they call it, friendship set on fire? Yes. I’ve always been fond of that phrase._

_I hope I haven’t left it too late. I thought…I thought giving him space might help, might give him room to breathe. Was it a mistake, though? Did he take as breathing space or did he take it as indifference? Should I ever have left his building that night? Was I right to leave, to go before things could get worse, before we might both say things we could never forget, or forgive? Or should I have stayed, should I have hammered on the door and told him there and then how I feel? So many forks in the road. So many shoulds and what ifs, how will I ever know which path I should have taken?_

_Oh, now that feeling I know far too well. The road not travelled. The other path. They'll haunt you, if you let them, my dear fellow. The past has already happened, it doesn’t do to dwell on the things you can’t change. Don’t lose yourself to the inconsequential maybes, to the alternate histories. Dreaming about them won’t change reality. If you wish you could change the past, look to the future instead; it’s too late to avoid mistakes that have already happened but you can overcome them, and overcome yourself; you can make sure you don’t make the same mistake twice. The past is a guidebook, that’s all, a map of every decision you’ve ever made. Some of them will lead to the greatest moments of your lifetime, and some of them to the darkest times. Look back at them, if you must, but only for a moment, only if you want to learn from yourself. It might surprise you to discover, Zira Fell, that life’s answers don’t only lay within the pages of other people’s stories; you could be your own greatest teacher, if only you would trust yourself._

***

_It’s better if you were on your way_

_If you were somewhere far from me_

_So you could dream I turned out well_

_And I… I could just go to sleep_

***

Crowley had hung around in the back room of the Den for long enough, pretending one of the latches on his guitar case needing oiling so he had a reason to ferret around in a drawer of miscellaneous musician bumf until he found a can of WD40.

_Fixes everything, WD40_, he thought, with a wry smile, wishing the wonder product's unparalleled uses extended to fixing relationships, or hearts.

Lucifer and the Guys’ set had finished almost half an hour previously but he hadn’t been able to face the crowd, to weave his way through the crush of bodies, knowing Zira wasn’t there. It had filled him with pride after the last show, to bound down the steps and into Zira’s arms, to kiss him right there in front of everybody, to slide an arm around his waist and say _yes, this one’s mine_. That night, though, there was nobody waiting for him, nobody to buy a drink for, to nuzzle against as the alcohol took effect, nobody who he could lean close to and say _thank you, thank you for coming, for being here for me_. There was only a long, lonely walk home, and another night to spend open-eyed in the darkness as sleep evaded him and those twisted thoughts skittered out of the shadows to remind him of every mistake, every bad decision that had led him to fall back to reality.

“There you are!” Sammy bellowed over the music, waving Crowley over as he emerged from backstage, trudging down the steps and letting the crowd swallow him up as he fought his way over to his friends. “How are you feeling?”

“You did great, mate. I know it wasn’t easy.” Dan curled a hand around his shoulder, gave it a little shake to reinforce his point. The four of them were heaped in a cluster by the bar, far enough away from the nearest speaker that they could almost hear each other without risking vocal chord strain.

Lily silently offered him a plastic cup that was almost full to the brim, as if the reason he might need a stiff drink didn’t need to be voiced aloud. Whisky and coke, by the look of it. _At least it isn’t gin_, he thought, nodding gratefully as he took it from her, downing it in two deep gulps. A shiver ran through him as the alcohol made its way through his bloodstream. It took the edge off, just a little, but it would take more than one overly diluted drink to make him forget completely. _A bottle of it_, he mused, _two bottles, and you would still be the only thought in my mind_.

“I’m going to head home, guys,” he announced, after two songs had ticked by and the conversation had shifted from their performance that night to everybody’s weekend plans. It felt like the right time to leave. After all, it was impossible for him to join in and not transport everybody into his vortex of dreary misery._ Oh, what’s that, Sammy, you’ve got a date? Well, I hope it goes well. And Lily? You’re heading down to Brighton to see your sister? That sounds lovely. Dan? Quiet weekend with the family? The dream. Oh, me? I think I’ll alternate between looking at photos and crying, and working, because what else am I going to do? _“Thanks for tonight, for having my back. I’ll text you all soon, yeah? Sort out the next get together. Maybe we could do something at my place?”

He wasn’t sure why he’d said it. Couldn’t think of a single reason why offering to host a gathering was a good idea but, even so, the words had left his mouth and the others were nodding enthusiastically, as if they couldn’t wait to spend an evening milling around in the flat while he tried desperately to throw together a playlist that didn’t remind him of Zira. It would be an impossible task, of course, given that he found something of the bookseller in every line of every song. Still, perhaps it would occupy him for a few days, at least.

He gave the band a final wave, then turned to make his way back through the crowd. He almost made it to the stairs without incident, but then two straight-haired, black-clothed, near enough identical girls stepped in front of him and blocked his path, arms folded across their chests. They didn’t look happy.

_Ah_.

“Where’s Zira?” Clara asked. Or it might have been Bella, Crowley wasn’t sure. He had no idea how Zira could tell them apart but the bookseller insisted it was quite simple, that Bella had the septum piercing (or _nose bar_, as Zira called it) and Clara had the spray of lilac flowers tattooed across her left collarbone. Or was it the other way around?

“Oh, he…couldn’t make it tonight.” Crowley forced a smile, tried to marry apology and lightness well enough that they wouldn’t pry any deeper. “Busy getting the shop ready, you know?”

They nodded slowly, trading a glance before their eyes flicked back to him, narrowing just enough to make it clear they hadn’t believed a word he’d said. “What’s happened? Is he all right?”

“He’s fine. Really, he’s fine. You could visit him at the shop, I think he’d like that.” _I’m sorry, angel, I hope I didn’t overstep the mark. You wouldn’t mind them calling by, would you? I hope you know how many people you have in your corner. I’m on that list too, of course. Always. Whatever happens with us, I’ll always be in your corner._

They softened then, satisfied that everything must be okay if they’d been given an open invitation to the shop. “Goodnight, then. You guys were great tonight. We’ll see you next time, won’t we? Unless we bump into you at the shop first.”

There were two perfectly quirked left eyebrows that might have been a challenge, and then the girls turned, in tandem, to swish their way towards the bar, leaving Crowley alone again.

_I hope they believed me. It’s just easier, isn’t it, sometimes, to hide the truth?_

_…I’ll wait for that to sink in, shall I? Three, two, one…_

_Oh. Bollocks._

***

_This part of you_

_This clock that stopped_

_This residue_

_It’s all I’ve got_

***

Zira settled down in bed, tugging the duvet up over his pyjama-clad legs and pulling it all the way up until it was tucked under his chin. He closed his eyes, then unscrewed them to take in the reassuring blink of the fire alarm in the corner of the room.

Excellent.

Time to sleep.

A moment later he opened his eyes again, reaching out for his phone and peering groggily at his cluttered home screen until he found what he was looking for. He waited for the dashboard to load and checked everything was operational. Three green symbols stared back at him. The security system he’d had installed was working just as it should, keeping everything downstairs tickety boo while he slept. Marvellous.

Safe. Sound. Alone. Just the way he had always wanted to be. Until that day when he’d found himself brandishing a very heavy book at a very handsome dog walker and everything he thought he knew about life, the world, and love, had changed forever.

Zira huffed in irritation, wondering if his mind ever planned on settling down enough to let him sleep, if only for a few hours. Sleep had been hard to come by in the days since he’d moved back to Soho. He opened his eyes for a third time, letting out a little grunt of annoyance as he reached for his phone again to check what ridiculous hour it was. In his haste, he knocked something off of the bedside table that fell to the ground with a heavy thunk.

“Oh, for Pete’s sake,” he hissed, reaching down to retrieve it while he clicked on his bedside light with the other hand. “Who is this _Pete_ anyway?”

He knew what the mysterious item was the second his fingers closed around it. A slim spine, a smooth cover. It was the book. His book. The only thing he had left of his old life. Of the time before he had lost everything in the fire. It had been his most dear thing even before then but it had become even more precious in the weeks since, a physical reminder of the trust Crowley had put in him. The trust, Zira realised, with a flare of shame, that he had so willingly broken.

Zira held it in his hands for a moment, fingers roving over the cover as he let himself pretend it was the first time, let himself be transported back to that winter night when Crowley had given it to him with that look of unprecedented shyness on his face, as if he couldn’t find the words to tell him everything it meant.

_Here’s my soul, angel._ It seemed to say, as he looked down at the plain black cover. _Please be gentle with it._

He let it fall open in his hands, waited for the pages to settle before he looked down to find what fate had chosen.

_Of course_, he thought to himself, smiling as he saw the words written there, the words he had read aloud to Crowley on that night. _Inevitable, like everything about us always has been_.

“I shut my eyes and all the world drops dead; I lift my lids and all is born again. I think I made you up inside my head.”

As he spoke them again, heard them echo back at him around an almost empty bedroom that was still devoid of any sort of a soul, any sort of _life, _he thought only of the night he and Crowley had sat in neighbouring armchairs in the room downstairs and exchanged words, and then presents, and then a kiss. It had felt like the beginning of something destined to change the world, or their world, at the very least.

“That’s what I want.”

_What? _The voice in his mind eased to life a second later, as if it had just been rudely awakened from a very pleasant dream. _What is it you want, my dear fellow?_

“Not this,” Zira said hurriedly, the words tumbling out as he swung both legs out of bed and staggered towards the wardrobe, wiping sleep from his eyes with the back of one hand as he reached for the wardrobe door. “I need to fix this. Now. Before it’s too late.”

The clock had barely struck midnight when Zira careened out of the shop, pausing only to silence the security alarm before it could wake the entire street, connect directly to the nearest police station, and ruin all of the plans that were racing through his mind. He was on his way a moment later, shrugging his cream jacket on as he broke into a power walk, and then a jog, and then, as the voice cheered him on with all the joy a disembodied voice could muster, a frantic run.

_Be brave, Zira Fell. Be braver than you ever have. Do it for all of us, do it for everybody who’s ever been afraid of love. Go and get your man._

***

_Up, down, turn around_

_Please don’t let me hit the ground_

_Tonight I think I’ll walk alone_

_I’ll find my soul as I go home_

***

In the days since Zira had left Crowley had taken to walking to try and exhaust himself enough that he could pour himself into bed at the end of the day and let sleep overtake him. It did, on occasion, but it was rarely peaceful. His snatches of sleep would be filled with those visions: of the cold, the darkness, a thick tongue pressed to his cheek as words of despair snaked into his mind. He would wake freezing, with sweat soaking the sheets beneath him, trembling as he clawed at the sides of the bed to tether himself, to remind him that he wasn’t in that dark place, not really, not while he was awake.

Sometimes he walked to remember, mostly he walked to forget. As he walked home from the gig, feet pounding the pavement, guitar case slung over one shoulder, he looked up at each one of the streetlights and found a memory of Zira there: of his eyes shining in the darkness as they moved together, forehead to forehead, fingers entwined; of his smile, the first thing Crowley would see when he opened his eyes each morning, that perfect, precious greeting. He found memories of the Halloween party at Lily’s house, how Zira had carefully met each of his friends, held a cat under one arm for most of the night, and had gently tip-toed into his world; memories of the night of the fire, of the faraway look in his eye as he had insisted to Crowley, to the nurse at the hospital, even to Barnaby, that he was fine, that he was absolutely a-okay, top notch. He hadn’t been, of course, and Crowley had seen that, had seen every part of him that he had tried to hide, as if who he really was was a source of shame.

_I saw you, angel, and I love you. All of you, every part. Even when you hid the truth from me. Hiding the truth, it sounds better than lying, doesn’t it? One of those loopholes you love so much. I’m sure that’s how you tried to make it better in your head. But it wasn’t okay. It wasn’t fair to me. I was right to be angry. But I was at fault too. I shouldn’t have lashed out. I was so busy being angry at you for being dishonest that I didn’t stop to realise I was doing the same thing. Hiding behind anger instead of being honest with you: instead of telling you that I was scared, that I am scared, that the thought of trying to be enough for you terrifies me almost as much as the idea of losing you. I haven’t lost you, have I? Please say there’s still time. Please say it isn’t too late for you._

A zebra crossing. A tube station. A corner shop, a kebab van, a betting shop, and then he was home. Except it wasn’t home, not quite, because the thing that had made his little flat truly feel like home, had made it feel like the most luxurious, grandest home in all of London, was missing.

***

_I came to my senses_

_Let go of my defences_

_There’s no way I’m giving up this time_

***

“Hey, watch where you’re going!” A middle-aged gentleman lurched to the left to avoid a collision, his voice a brusque cry as his briefcase collided with Zira’s merrily swinging arm.

“Sorry, old chap.” Zira came to a halt, turning on his heel and following the man for a few paces, clapping a hand on his shoulder. “It’s just... I’m in love, you see. I’m in love!”

As the rain poured down and slicked London’s streets, the man fixed Zira with a look of bemused curiosity, taking in his soft, beaming smile, neatly-pressed, albeit rain-dappled, trousers, and very sensible shoes indeed. They really were _excellent_ shoes, must have cost a fortune. Italian perhaps. The man shook his head to refocus his thoughts, tipping his umbrella forward just enough to shelter Zira, as well as himself. “Well, I’m very happy for you, sir.”

To the man’s amusement, and very British horror, Zira reached for him, clapping a hand on each of his shoulders and giving the fabric of his overcoat a little squeeze between his fingers, as if he could barely contain his excitement. “Thank you, my good man. Thank you. Wish me luck!”

“Best of luck…in your future endeavours?” The man’s voice raised at the end of the sentence, as if he wasn’t sure he’d picked quite the right turn of phrase, but hoped the sentiment was clear enough. Then, with a happy nod, Zira bid him goodnight and dashed off down the street, stopping every few paces to smile at a stranger, or call out to nobody in particular to declare what a _wonderful night it is._ He waited for that eccentric, blond-haired man to sweep around the corner, leaving love in his wake so palpable it almost danced in the air as he shouted into the darkness, pausing between love confessions to apologise for almost knocking into another passerby.

“Ah, yes, good evening. Sorry, my good woman, seem to have trodden a tad heavily, splashed you a bit…here, allow me. You see, in a bit of a hurry. I’ve met _the one_, and he’s perfect and brilliant and, oh my, so handsome, and I very much need to tell him that I’m quite desperately in love with him. Have been for all of this time, as it turns out! Anyway, must dash, pip pip!”

The man chuckled as he turned to leave, then paused as he caught sight of a twenty four hour corner shop on the opposite side of the road, a bedraggled bunch of pink roses looking back at him from the flower stand outside. He looked to the left, then the right, and jogged across the road. A morning surprise, perhaps, for a partner who would wake in the morning to find he had returned in the night only to have left before sunrise.

Love. It was the world's most benevolent contagion.

***

_Oh, you’ve got green eyes_

_Oh, you’ve got blue eyes_

_Oh, you’ve got grey eyes_

_And I’ve never seen anyone quite like you before_

***

Crowley shook the rain from his hair, kicking off his boots and shrugging out of his rain-soaked jacket. He found a wet nose pressed to one hand, smiled down as Barnaby circled him once, twice, three times, each circle tighter than the last as the dog tried to subtly guide him towards the treat tin.

“In a minute.” He laughed, padding across the room to lean his guitar case against the wall before he retrieved Barnaby’s treats from the sideboard. A glint then, something catching the light. He felt his stomach drop. The sword. It was still nestled between the sideboard and the wall, propped up out of harm’s way, all but forgotten.

_That bloody sword. I can’t keep that here, he’ll want to get it mounted back in the shop. Maybe I should…call him, give him a text, at least. Break the ice, see if I can drop it off, along with the bags he left here. Maybe we can get lunch, catch up. Maybe it’ll be a new beginning. I’ll say sorry first, or maybe he will, it won’t really matter, and then we can talk, explain things, move on. Will the spark still be there, or will the fight have dulled it? Will I feel the same when I see him again, or will his dishonesty have dulled something? Will the words I said have chipped away at him, downgraded this from magic to pedestrian?_

_If it has, my sweet angel, if we come face to face and you don’t feel it, what we felt on that first night, please tell me. You owe it to yourself not to settle for the pedestrian. You deserve a love as infinite as the stars, you always have. You are so much more than you will ever let yourself believe. I saw it the first time I laid eyes on you. I’ve seen it every day since. And when we meet again, whenever that might be, I know it’s the first thing that I’ll see._

_Enough. Enough of it. Enough of fear, of pride, of waiting, waiting, waiting. I know what I want, and I know what I need, and it’s time for me to go and get it. I want you, I need you, I love you, angel._

“What do you think, boy?” Crowley asked, hunkering down on his heels so he was eye level with Barnaby. “Do you think it’s worth a shot?”

Barnaby whined, eyes trained firmly on the treat in Crowley’s hand. He laughed, tossed it to the dog, then gave him a scratch between the ears as he stood up, meandering over to the coat rack to pull his damp jacket back on. The night was young and there was, after all, no time like the present. Crowley looked back at his beloved dog one more time, then nodded to himself as he turned to swipe his keys off of the coffee table.

Filled with the sort of courage that can only be borne in the early hours of the morning, can only be fuelled by the blend of a performance high and whisky, Crowley reached out to fling the door of the flat open but stopped in his tracks, as a loud, confident knock on the door echoed around the flat at that precise moment.

_Knock._

_Knock._

_Knock._

***

_Who really says they hope they’ll meet the one_

_For the first time at a bar, drinking early?_

***

All Crowley could do was stare at the figure standing in the hallway, rainwater dripping from the hem of his jacket until droplets scattered around him like a halo. In one hand he was clutching a brown paper bag. In the other, a limp bouquet of yellow tulips that smiled up at him like sunshine, and pinched between his elbow and waist, a bottle of wine and a box that could only have contained very overpriced chocolates indeed.

“Were you…” Zira spoke first, trailing off as he inclined his head towards Crowley’s jacket. He swallowed, lips pressing together and curving up into a hopeful smile. “I won’t be long, I just…I just have to say…”

“Actually, I was coming to see you,” Crowley said, balling one hand into a fist and tucking it by his side to stop his fingers reaching up to trace Zira’s cheek, to flick away the speckles of rain shining against his skin. “What are you doing here?”

The bookseller took a step forward, a step closer. He smiled, eyes closing for a moment, as if he wanted to savour every second of what was about to happen, what he was about to say. When he opened his eyes they met Crowley’s, the sky staring into fire, and when he spoke it was with the sort of quiet strength he had felt like he had waited lifetimes to summon. “What I want, for once.”

There was the first bloom of anticipation in Crowley’s chest, the quickening of his heart, a shiver that spread through his bloodstream. _Look at you_, he thought, _how did I ever let you walk out of here? _He stepped back, one arm arcing out as he invited Zira inside, realising that, perhaps, this was one of those moments where he should stop, wait, and let whatever the universe had planned play out.

Zira bundled his armful of goods onto the coffee table, then turned around to face Crowley, biting back a smile as he let his eyes rove slowly over the dog walker, from the tips of his rain-mussed hair all the way down to the scuffed toes of his boots. _God, you’re perfect_.

There was silence for a heartbeat, and the feeling of peering over the cliffs, of staring into that churning swell of ocean, the feeling of gazing up into the night, of staring up at that sprawl of stars, of other worlds. _Up or down, this is the moment, make it count._

It was Zira who moved first, pacing forward until Crowley was within reaching distance. And then he did reach for him, one hand curling around the pocket of his jacket, slipping inside until the tips of their fingers brushed.

There it was. That spark. It had never gone anywhere.

“What do you want, Zira?” Crowley’s voice was barely a breath as he ducked his head, cheek coming to rest against Zira’s, his temple pressed to the bookseller’s forehead. _So close, so close, just say the word, angel, please._

Then Zira did speak, whispering words against Crowley’s skin that left the dog walker biting his lip, squeezing his hand, closing his eyes so he could focus on nothing other than the sound of everything he had always wanted.

“You. Just you. That’s all I want. I love you, Crowley. I should have told you the moment I realised. I’ve been such a fool. I’m so sorry, my love. I will never let you down, I’ll be everything you need, everything you want, I’ll-”

He never got to finish his sentence, or his speech, so carefully rehearsed in his head as he’d raced away from Soho, away from solitude, back towards chaos, to the inevitable, to love, because then Crowley’s lips were pressed to his and the great love of his life was pulling him closer, closer, closer, until two hearts were pounding in perfect harmony. Together. Together. Always together.

They pulled apart, laughing against each other’s lips as Crowley stroked Zira’s wet curls back from his face, kissed his forehead, his cheek, the tip of his nose, and then his lips, their kiss deepening until he pulled away again, eyes widening as if he’d forgotten something.

“And I love you, Zira Fell, of course I do. It’s always been love, hasn’t it? Inevitable, that’s what we are, angel. I love you, in a thousand different ways, I love you.”

That night, as the stars shone over London and the moon smiled down, there was only the sound of happiness filling that little flat, of laughter and declarations of love blurred against skin, of lips meeting again and again, of apologies and understanding and forgiveness, of new beginnings and promises of _never again, I’ll never leave you again, I swear to you, I love you, I always will, I love you, I love you. _And then came the sound of frantic, joyful barking, as Barnaby pushed his way between them and jumped up, first at Crowley, and then at Zira, pawing desperately at him as he welcomed his human’s human back into the family. For good, that time. To the end of everything.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So, er, am I forgiven? Any of my fellow UK folk, I hope this was a little bit of a welcome distraction after today.
> 
> I hope everyone has something lovely planned for the weekend and that those of you on deadlines or on hardcore pre-Christmas work schedules get a bit of time to yourselves this weekend <3.
> 
> The next (and final!) chapter is coming on Tuesday 17th. Incidentally, my birthday, and, also incidentally, six months to the day since I published the first chapter of Part I. It's been a wild six months and I appreciate every single one of you who's supported me and spurred me on - this journey wouldn't have been half as fulfilling or half as much fun if it wasn't for you all.
> 
> Anyway - see you Tuesday, dear ones! <3 <3 <3
> 
> P.S. The quotes between scenes are song lyrics from the songs Lucifer and the Guys' played at the gig that night - all of the songs are up on the playlist if you're curious (shoutout to lovely AlmondCreamTea for putting Evil Angel back on my radar - a *lot* of different interpretations of that one, hmmm!). You can listen to the playlist here: https://open.spotify.com/playlist/4TndXiAWyel8ZctAACYZE6?si=5Fg9xwpdQ_q_227sdV8p-A


	47. Love is a Wild Thing

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “Flowers, chocolates, wine, McDonald’s: the four cornerstones of love, aren’t they?”

**March. Crowley’s Flat, London.**

It was a beautiful springtime morning in London. The sun shone warmly from its position low in the sky, soaking up the rain from the night before as if the storms were somehow reversed, puddles receding until there was nothing left, as if they’d never been there at all.

Crowley stirred to the feeling of fingers brushing gently through his hair, a thumb arcing smoothly back and forth down the length of his face, a touch so soft he wondered if he might be imagining it, if it was only the whisper of a memory. For a moment he was afraid to open his eyes, in case all he found was solitude, in case every wonderful word, every touch, every kiss from the hours before might have been the cruellest trick his mind had ever played on him. _Feel it, feel happiness, feel bliss, feel it as hard as you can, and now is the part where we take it away from you_.

He felt lips brush against his shoulder, heard a sigh of utter contentment, and then he found himself smiling as he opened his eyes to find Zira looking down at him, face so soft with love he could have cried with the relief of it all. There was nothing left to run from, nothing left to hold back. They said it all the night before, had laid themselves truly bare, spoken of fears and vulnerabilities and love, so much love.

“Good morning,” Zira murmured, leaning down to kiss him, front teeth catching Crowley’s bottom lip for a second before he pulled away. “I love you. Even more today than yesterday, somehow.”

“You know how to make a man swoon, Zira Fell.” Crowley smiled, felt that sleeping dread ebb away as he sat up, taking Zira in his arms and leaning back against the headboard. “I love you, so much.”

“Do you suppose we’ll ever get tired of saying it?” Zira asked, as if the question was rhetorical, as if they both knew the answer was a resounding _no_. _No, we’ll never get tired of saying it, no, we’ll never stop saying it either. Every day. Every night. Every morning. I love you, I love you._

They sat in peaceful silence as the clock ticked on and the minutes passed by. There was no need to rush, to hurry out of bed and get the day started. There was no need, in fact, to do anything other than exactly what they wanted. It was the first day of everything else, everything that would come after the night they had finally decided to be honest, to be foolish and trusting and brave enough to take a chance on love.

“I’m sorry I didn’t come to the Den last night.” As he spoke, Zira’s breath was warm against Crowley’s chest, and he felt his cheek rise and fall with the unending rhythm of the dog walker’s steady heartbeat.

“And I’m sorry I didn’t follow you on the night you left. Although, if I had, I’m not sure we would be sitting here right now, not like this.”

“No.” Zira shook his head with a sigh of regret. “No, I don’t think we would. I think time was exactly what we needed. There’s a certain amount of clarity that comes with space, with time apart, isn’t there? Sometimes you don’t understand how much something truly means until it’s taken away. I knew I loved you, of course, I knew you were everything I wanted but it wasn’t until I thought I might have lost you that I understood the enormity of everything we’ve built throughout these months. It’s not just _this_ that’s made my life better, it’s every little thing you’ve brought into it. Do you know I can’t even watch the evening news any more without whistling along as if I’m some sort of ridiculous harmonica support band? And every time I walk past a McDonald’s…do you _know_ how many McDonald’s there are in London? You’re everywhere, my love, and there’s something of you in everything now. I can’t walk down a single street in the city without smiling at something that makes me think of you, of us.”

When Crowley failed to reply Zira bit his lip, wondering if perhaps his words had been one declaration too far, but then he looked up to find tears shining in the dog walker’s eyes. It wasn’t too far, or too much, or too little. It was, _he_ was, Zira realised, just enough.

***

“Angel?” Crowley asked, after they had woken up from their second nap of the morning to find the sunlight filtering brightly through the curtains. _Still early_, Crowley mused, _but give it an hour and I’ll be summoned for the morning constitutional. Just a little bit longer, just a few more minutes of this_. “Can I ask you something?”

“Of course.” Next to him, Zira sat up, stretching both arms above his head as he stifled a yawn. _Why is it_, he wondered,_ that you can sleep so soundly for so many hours and still wake up yawning? Bodies. Funny old things_.

“Why _did_ you bring so much McDonald’s with you last night?” He punctuated the question with a laugh, leaning forward to look out into the living room, to where the remnants of the previous night’s celebrations were strewn across the coffee table. A spread of empty red cardboard cartons stared back at him. “I’m not complaining. I think we needed the…sustenance _afterwards_. Might have keeled over from exhaustion otherwise.”

“I wasn’t quite sure what the appropriate gift was to accompany an outpouring of emotion so I, er, bought everything. Flowers, chocolates, wine, McDonald’s: the four cornerstones of love, aren’t they?”

“Sounds about right to me.”

Two became three then, as the sound of soft pawsteps creaked across the floor and Barnaby padded into the bedroom, looking sleepy-eyed and very happy indeed, as if all was suddenly right with the world.

“Good morning, Barnaby,” Zira said brightly, patting the mattress invitingly as Crowley tutted, attempting to pretend he thoroughly disapproved of the idea. Both boyfriend and beast ignored him and Barnaby sprung up onto the bed, flopping down across their legs and panting happily as he looked from human to human, as if he couldn’t decide who to bestow affection upon first.

“Me.” Crowley made up his mind for him, reaching out to rub the spot between his shoulder blades that left him kicking out one of his back legs in joy. “Zira might be your new best friend but I’m the one who feeds you.”

“Yes, but I’m the one who slips him cheese when you’re not looking.”

“When you _think_ I’m not looking.”

Barnaby looked back at Zira, as if he was just as shocked their clandestine cheese smuggling wasn’t quite as surreptitious as they had always thought, and then went back to idly licking his front paws, as if he had just remembered that he was the best boy in London and, so, could get away with absolutely anything.

“Speaking of cheese, I’m absolutely famished. Breakfast?”

Crowley nodded, tugging gently at Barnaby’s collar until the dog relented, jumping down from the bed and sitting in the doorway, tail wagging as if he knew what was coming next. “Do you want to do the honours while I take this one for a stroll?”

“My love,” said Zira, pausing to meet Crowley in a kiss, “it would be my pleasure.”

***

“Just can’t stop lying, can you?” Zira hissed, chastising himself as he frantically scraped crispy egg from the bottom of the frying pan. “_It would be my pleasure_? When has massacring breakfast ever been my pleasure? Eating breakfast? Well, that’s another story. Preparing it? _Cleaning_ up afterwards? I’m just going to tell him the truth, that’s what I _do_ now, after all. I’m just going to say _Crowley, I love you, and I owe you the truth: I really, really, really hate-_”

“Angel?” Crowley called out as he closed the front door, voice tentative as he caught the tail end of Zira’s conversation with himself. “Who are you talking to?”

“Nobody, dear!” Zira sing-songed back, hoping the quiet wail of anguish he let out was buried under the whirr of the extractor fan. Granted, the sound of the extractor fan would probably raise enough suspicion on its own, given that a simple breakfast of eggs on toast shouldn’t require fumigation of the entire kitchen. “Just talking to myself. You know me, silly old sausage.”

“Oh, sausages, now there’s an idea. Have we got any in the fridge?” Crowley’s voice grew more distant as he disappeared into the bedroom, leaving only the sound Barnaby click-clacking happily around the living room, filled with all the post-walk vigour that would hastily be replaced with the need for a long mid-morning nap by the window.

“Sausages? Honestly, I think I have _quite_ enough to be getting on with,” Zira whispered briskly, as he took the frying pan of dubiously dry eggs off of the heat and turned his attention to the toast, which was straddling the border between charcoal and ash. “How am I getting _worse_ at this?”

***

“No sausages?” Crowley asked, biting his lip to keep from laughing as he looked down at the plate of charred toast topped with eggs that were somehow both watery _and_ overcookedß, then looked up at Zira, whose chest was heaving as though he’d sprinted up a number of flights of stairs before delivering breakfast.

“No sausages,” Zira panted, dragging the back of one hand across his damp forehead. “Would’ve finished me off. Can’t take the pressure. Don’t know how you do it.”

“Oh, you just stay calm, angel, you know? You show those eggs who’s boss.”

“No, I _don’t_ know. Does this look calm to you? Does this look a person in control of the kitchen? Those eggs, Crowley…it’s like they _want_ me to fail.”

“Mmm,” Crowley mumbled through a mouthful of breakfast that was more butter than egg. "Conspiring against you, I'm sure. Crafty little buggers.”

“Well, it’s lucky you’re not with me for my skills in the kitchen, let’s just leave it at that.”

“My sweet angel.” Crowley deposited his half-empty plate on the bedside table, reached out to pull Zira down bedside him on the bed, peppering his face and hair with quick kisses. “Every breakfast you make is better than the one before because it means it’s one more time I got to wake up next to you.”

Safe and sound in Crowley’s arms, Zira melted.

“Oh, I meant to say, I got you something.” The dog walker reached over to tug the top drawer of his bedside table open, pulling out the little black book he had picked up for Zira on the night everything had gone so wrong. Still, what better way to celebrate a new beginning than with a gift from the heart? “I wanted it give it to you before but…”

“We were too busy shouting at each other, I assume.”

“Well, yes,” Crowley conceded, passing him the book and peering over his shoulder as he cracked open the first page, pausing to run a finger over the smooth, buttery paper, on which there was a photo of the two of them crushed together in the crowded pit of the Devil’s Den, looking very much worse for wear.

“What is this?” Zira asked quietly, wondrously flicking through the pages to uncover more and more snapshotted memories of the two of them, of every adventure they had shared over the months, from those grand moments atop the cliffs by the sea, to the most mundane moments of joy on the sofa, legs tangled under a blanket as the ate their way through one of Tracy’s lasagnes.

“It’s us, angel. The story so far.”

Zira fell silent as he paused on every page, taking his time to fall back into each one of the memories, some of them all but forgotten until that moment. “Crowley, this is… I don’t know what to say, this is perfect, _you_ are perfect. I…I’m so cross with myself; all those weeks I wasted being too afraid to tell you that I love you. I could have told you a thousand times by now.”

Crowley smiled, taking the book from Zira’s hands and sliding an arm around the bookseller’s waist to ease him down onto the mattress, one leg swinging over Zira’s body until he was straddling his hips. He leaned down, inching closer until their lips were only a breath apart. “Just because we didn’t say the words, it didn’t mean we hadn’t told each other. When you found me after Barnaby’s accident, when I gave you the book, when you called me on the night of the fire, when I told you we were inevitable. I think maybe we already had told each other a thousand times in a thousand different ways.”

“And now we can find a thousand other ways.” Zira lifted his chin, let his lips brush against Crowley’s and hovered there, for a heartbeat, until he felt the dog walker’s hips press to his, slowly, teasingly. He let out a moan of relief, kissing him again, until there was nothing but the two of them reaching for each other, whispering _I love you, you’re mine, I’m yours, always_.

***

“Let’s do something.” Crowley traced a finger from the base of Zira’s bare stomach up to his neck, then ducked his head to nip gently at the soft skin where his fingertip had touched just a second before. “Tonight. Let’s have everyone over. Let’s celebrate all of this. What do you think?”

Zira grinned, sniffing out a little laugh as he mused how he might have reacted to a spontaneous party six months ago. Where there would have been nerves, the instant desire to push back, to say no, to make an excuse, then there was only excitement, thoughts of menus and cocktail combinations swirling in his mind. “I think, Crowley, that that sounds like an excellent idea.”

They fell silent, both turning to their phones as they tapped out messages to each of their respective friendship groups. Friendship groups that were, perhaps, on the cusp of becoming one mad, loving family. While Zira fired off a message to Raphael without a second thought, his finger hovered over the ‘Send’ icon for a moment as he debated whether to extend the invitation to Clara and Bella. After all, he had already cancelled on them once before and had promised to reschedule, and it would be fun, wouldn’t it, if _he_ was responsible for some of the party’s impending chaos, rather than leaving it all in Crowley’s corner? He smiled, gave himself a nod of encouragement, and sent the second message.

Next to him, Crowley had sent off a much sparser message to his group chat that consisted of Mick and the band:

_Back in the game. Party at mine tonight. Sammy, don’t think I won’t notice if you don’t contribute to the booze table, you cheap bastard._

“Shall I call into Fortnum’s later?” Zira asked, mentally weighing up the pros of whole versus individual beef wellingtons. Yes, beef would be the best choice, surely. And whisky to pair it with, of course. Perhaps a nice dark porter for Mick, he was a beer man, after all. “I could call ahead, put in an order for us to pick up this afternoon?”

“No. No, no, oh my god, no.” Crowley laughed, shaking his head violently and laying a hand on Zira’s knee. “There will be no overpriced pastry courses at this party, angel.”

“But…everybody loves a wellington.”

“Yes, okay, I’ll give you that but this isn’t a Fortnum’s sort of evening, my sweet, affluent little foodie. This is more…pizza and whatever alcohol is lurking at the back of the cupboard.”

“I see.” Zira nodded sagely, giving a little wiggle of approval as he felt his excitement about the evening grow. A real house party, well, flat party, and_ he_ would be one of the hosts. Maybe it would be like Halloween all over again, except that night he and Crowley might be able to steal away into the kitchen _without_ interruptions every five minutes. “Well, I’m very excited. What about music? Do we need lights? Shall we push the sofa back, make a dance floor? Did Lily have a dance floor at Halloween? I remember dancing. But I don’t remember where…”

“Honestly, angel, we could have been up on the ceiling and I wouldn’t have noticed. All I was thinking about was getting you alone.”

“Mmm, well, we’re alone now…” Zira turned onto his side, eyes half-closed as he gave Crowley a look of abject temptation. He shook his head then, as if he’d just remembered he had something very important to announce. “I almost forgot, so silly of me, I want to take you somewhere.”

“Now?”

“Yes.” Zira took Crowley’s hand, kissed the knuckle of his thumb and then nodded as he broke into a smile. “Yes, my love. Now.”

***

“Where are we going?” Crowley laughed, looking up at the sky and beaming at the clouds as Zira tugged him along the pavement, uttering a little chuckle of joy every few moments, as if he could barely wait to get to their mysterious destination. “Seriously! We’ve been walking for ages.”

“So dramatic, it hasn’t even been half an hour.” Zira looked down at his watch, frowning back at Crowley as he glanced over his shoulder to find the dog walker frantically gasping for breath. “Don’t you _walk_ for a living?”

“Yeah, all right, less of the judgement. I _am_ going to start exercising, I swear.”

“Mmm, perhaps you’ll go for your second run of the year before summer arrives.” Zira raised an eyebrow, then turned his attention back to the road. “We’re almost there, just a few more minutes.”

It was near enough midday by the time Zira came to a stop and let go of Crowley’s hand, leaving him to catch his breath as they stood, side by side, in front of the place that had held such a special place in Zira’s heart, ever since the night it had sprung, miraculously, to life.

“Angel?” Crowley asked, as he slowly looked up and realised where Zira had brought them. He felt himself break into a smile, marvelled at the way tears felt so close to the surface. He didn’t need to finish his question, didn’t need to ask why they were standing in front of that beautiful place. Of course. Of course that’s where they would come to begin everything all over again, that place that breathed life into so many new beginnings. It was the garden.

“This place used to be a ruin,” Zira said, as his fingers found Crowley’s and the two of them slipped inside the gate and walked slowly down the path, pausing every few steps to gape at a flower so bright, so beautiful, it barely looked real; or a tree, something strong and steady, as if it had stood there for a thousand years, as if it would stand there for a thousand more, weathering every storm, every challenge, every war. “It used to be barren, do you remember? I remember when it was a wasteland, something locked away. Had it ever known love, I wonder? It used to be nothing, something people walked past without a second look. And then one night, out of nowhere, something happened to this place. It knew love, and it bloomed. It became something beautiful.”

Crowley smiled, remembering the headlines on that morning after London had woken up one summer’s day to find paradise had come to one small corner of the city. “They thought it was a marketing campaign. Or a miracle.”

“That’s why I brought you here, Crowley. I’m not… Well, it’s become increasingly apparent I’m not very good at articulating how I feel. Ironic, isn’t it, a bookseller who can never find the words? But I thought, perhaps, I could show you everything you mean to me. I brought you here because they call this place a miracle and, well, there’s no other way to say it, you’re a miracle to me. You, us, this, everything about it is miraculous.”

There was the feeling of thickness in his throat, of breath that shuddered in his chest as he let Zira’s words, and everything that lay behind them, sink in. _Enough_, he realised, as he swallowed hard enough to push the tears away, for a little while, at least._ I’m enough for him. Just as I am, just like this._

“I used to come here, you know, after that first night.” Zira nodded across to the bar next door, The Garden, the place where he had taken control of his life for the first time, had done something reckless _just because_. _And look where it’s brought me_, he thought, with a grin. _Best cocktail I’ve ever bought_. “Back when we were first getting to know each other I would come here, sit on this bench. Yes, this one here. I wouldn’t do much, just sit, look at the flowers, the trees, and let my thoughts drift to you. It never took long. It was as if this place was hardwired, somehow, to bring me back to you. Come with me.”

He tightened his grip on Crowley’s hand, strode down the path as the dog walker followed behind him, staring wondrously as if he was seeing the place for the first time. _How could it be_, Crowley thought, _that this feels like the first time I’ve ever really looked at this garden? I used to rush past it, I used to complain about everybody stopping to take pictures, to drone on and on about bloody…flowers. How did I miss everything this place is? How could I rush by so quickly I missed all of this beauty for so long?_

“You see these flowers?” Zira nodded down towards a sprawl of creeping red cockscomb plants, their flowers deep blood red, perched on top of forest green leaves. “I would see that colour and think of your hair. And here…” Next he took them to a great towering tree, emerald ivy coiling its trunk, serpentine-tight. “Did you ever see this in the autumn? For just a few days, before it turns red, it’s golden, and in that I would find your eyes.”

As they wound their way around that miraculous garden, where plants from every corner of the world nestled side by side, blooming and flowering next to neighbours they never should have known, Zira pointed out something of Crowley in every one of them. He laughed as they reached a cluster of daffodils, as bright and cheery as the sun. “They always make me happy, just like you do. Even after the fire when everything felt hopeless, these flowers were there, and there was your smile.”

“Moonflowers,” Crowley murmured, stopping to look down at the pretty white flowers that only truly bloomed under the light of the moon, though he had no idea how the knowledge had appeared so easily in his mind. “The safety of darkness.”

After they had picked apart every element of their relationship, found a plant, or a flower, or a tree that somehow resonated with everything that they were, a dog walker and a bookseller found themselves back at the beginning of the garden. They could have spent the rest of the day there, wandering quietly, peacefully amongst the flowers, hand in hand, together, at last. But it was time to go.

As Crowley took a step towards the gate, he felt something tug at his hand and turned to find Zira gazing up a climbing wall of roses, intricately knotted around the chainlink fence that circled the garden. Delicate blooms of the palest pink through to the deepest red shone there like precious jewels and perhaps that was exactly what they were, even if they only existed for a little while. He watched as Zira, his soulmate, the one he would love for the rest of his days, picked one of the pink flowers and brought it up to his face, closing his eyes as he inhaled the sweet scent and was transported, for a heartbeat, to another place, another memory.

There was a drop of rain then, landing softly on Crowley’s forearm. And then another. And another. The skies opened and the rain fell, splashing against the ground and filling the air with the earthy scent of relief, of rebirth, of new life. A memory poured over him, of standing in another garden, so very long ago. It had been his place, something he had created in another time. In another world. There had been rain, though it hadn’t had a name back then. There had been wings, white and pure and beautiful, stretching out to shelter him. It had been the first kind act he had known since the darkness. Love. He had felt the first flash of it in that moment. Desperate, hopeless, unending love.

In the garden on that bright spring day in the centre of the city, he staggered forward a pace, eyes fluttering closed as he reached for something to steady himself against. There was a haze in his mind, the sensation of something rising to the surface, something uncoiling, and then he heard only a whispered apology in his mind as he slipped gently into softness that felt like a dream.

_I’ll keep you safe, mate, I promise. We’ll meet one day, I hope, and I’ll explain all of this, I swear to you. When you wake up everything will be as it always should have been. All of my darkness will be gone. You’ll be you. Just you. You’re enough, you always have been, you always will be, never forget that._

A heartbeat later, Crowley opened his eyes, letting out a low hiss as the sun beat down, magnified through the rain, all but blinding him. He squinted for a moment, looked up to find everything tinged with white. It was too bright. He patted his pocket with his free hand. No glasses. Of course not.

How many months had it been since he’d seen the sun, he wondered, felt the rain on his skin as he stood on solid ground, surrounded by plants and life and everything he had created from the depths of his heart? Seven months, he realised, seven months since the day he had been snuffed out in one world and reborn in another. Seven months, near enough to the day, since Aziraphale had saved them both, had given them a new world. A better world.

Against heaven and hell, against the odds, they had made it. They were standing there, together, in his garden, that place he had breathed new life into, the last gift Aziraphale had ever given him before they had said goodbye to the world in the name of love. There they stood, breathing, living: a miracle. Despite everything that had told them no, an angel and a demon had said yes. _Yes, we’re going to live, yes, we will never stop, yes, we will do whatever it takes, always._

“Crowley?”

He heard a voice whispering his name, as weakly as if it could barely form the word. He turned, shielding his eyes from the sun and then everything came into thundering focus. There, holding a rose that represented everything that had brought their love, and that world, into being, was Aziraphale.

“Angel…is that you?” He didn’t need to ask, though, not really. He would have known that smile, those eyes, anywhere. It was the face he had risked it all for again and again, the face he would risk it all for one last time.

“Crowley.”

There was no question in the angel’s voice that time, just the sweetest sound Crowley had ever heard. His own name, his chosen name, spoken so carefully with so much love that he was powerless to do anything other than take his angel in his arms and let the tears that his human counterpart had tried so hard to blink away fall on his cheeks.

“We did it, my love, we’re here,” Aziraphale murmured, reaching up to stroke the tears away from his face, smiling so widely it was as if he could barely believe that they were standing there, together, in the garden, as if they were the ones who had fallen into a dream.

“We’re back, aren’t we, to finish this once and for all? It was just like we said, when the time came for us to take control… We both knew. It was the garden, of course it was. Where everything started. For us and for them.” The demon wiped away a final tear, coughing to cover up a little hiccup of emotion. He pressed his forehead to Aziraphale’s, ducked low to meet the angel in a kiss, and then nodded to collect his thoughts, as if there wasn't a moment to waste. “Right then, angel, no more time for tears, we have work to do. What’s next?”

Aziraphale took Crowley’s hand in his, dusting non-existent fluff off of his jacket with the other. He turned to the demon, raising both eyebrows as if the gesture could even begin to suggest every challenge, every danger, every sacrifice that lay in the time ahead.

“Well, Crowley, I do believe we’re going to save the world.”

*****

****

***

**

*

**

***

****

*****

****

***

**

*

**

***

****

*****

****

***

**

*

**

***

****

*****

****

***

**

*

**

***

****

*****

****

***

**

*

**

***

****

*****

****

***

**

*

**

***

****

*****

**Heaven.**

Lightning flashed in the heavens. It had been some time since the skies had known peace, since celestial clouds had been replaced with eternal storms, with the purest form of rage.

The angel hurried down the corridor, jumping as another crack of lightning sounded overhead. They gripped the scroll tightly, fingers of their other hand knotting in the sleeve of their robes.

They stopped in front of the door, forced their breathing to grow calm as they thought about everything they had been sent there to do, what that message would mean, what it would lead to, the choice they were about to make. _As if I have a choice_, they thought bitterly.

Sucking in one last breath to steady themselves, they held their fist an inch away from the smooth, thick wood of the door, the only thing separating them from what they had come to believe was chaos itself, was the very thing that might herald the end of days. For all of them.

_I'm sorry for what I have to do. Please forgive me._

Regret gripped them like a vice the moment their fist made first contact with the wood but it was too late for regret. It was too late for anything but compliance. Two shaky footsteps cut through the light filtering out from underneath the door. He was there.

The angel swallowed tightly, heard their commander’s orders ringing in their ears: _When you see him, don’t react, whatever you do, and if you don’t trust yourself not to keep quiet, don’t look at his face._

After a stretch of time that could have been a minute, or a century, the door creaked open and a frail, gnarled hand reached out to snatch the scroll. A jagged fingernail, broken, or gnawed, halfway down a wet nail bed, brushed against the angel’s thumb and they felt a lurch in their stomach. Of fear. Of disgust. Of disbelief at everything the Almighty’s chosen one had become.

“It’s weak but…we’ve found something, Lord Gabriel.”

The door slammed closed in the angel’s face and they turned to leave, letting out a desperate breath as they hurried away, breaking into a run as shrieking laughter clawed its way out from underneath the door, echoing out around the corridors of heaven, as menacing and dreadful as any peal of hellish thunder.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Well, here we are, Part II has come to a close and Part III will be publishing from Wednesday January 1st!
> 
> Part II playlist is now complete: https://open.spotify.com/playlist/4TndXiAWyel8ZctAACYZE6?si=xMJOmvovR-y4hH3Xwv47Nw
> 
> *
> 
> During the Christmas break I’m going to be making a start on Part III and also working on a couple of the short stories I neglected while Part II was publishing, namely our boy Raphael’s side story…look out for the next update there publishing in the next couple of weeks (https://archiveofourown.org/works/20401738/chapters/48391339).
> 
> I’ll be lurking in the comments as always so do swing by and say hi if you want to <3
> 
> *
> 
> Before I give you a little sneak peek of what’s coming up in Part III I just want to take a minute to thank every single one of you reading this for all of the time, love, and support you’ve given me all the way through from Part I. It means more to me than I can ever explain and on the days when my motivation has been a bit lacking reading your comments has put the biggest smile on my face.
> 
> The best part of writing this story has honestly been finding all of you lovely people and I just want you all to know how much your support absolutely makes my day, every day. You’ve truly made this experience so special for me and if there’s anything I can ever do to repay just a teensy bit of the support you’ve given me, please just say. Here for each and every one of you <3.
> 
> *
> 
> So, what next? The celestial boys are back and ready to save the world and themselves…or, at least, attempt to…! A few things coming up in Part III are:
> 
> \- The boys pick up something to spruce up Anthony’s flat  
\- Aziraphale vs bath bombs round II  
\- London’s most chaotic dog walker’s ongoing quest to get fit reaches fever pitch  
\- Lucifer and the Guys meet an actual demon guitarist  
\- Zira takes Verity up on the offer she gave him at the Devil’s Den many many (many) chapters ago  
\- An angel and a demon attempt to stay hydrated  
\- Barnaby gets all the strokes, causes all the chaos, sniffs all the things  
\- Oh, and not forgetting the hastily approaching countdown to the literal end of the world as heaven’s spotlight closes in on our favourite celestial soulmates…can’t neglect the underlying sense of dread, can we? :D
> 
> Merry Christmas!
> 
> Yours, ineffably <3

**Works inspired by this one:**

  * [Fan Art for Ineffably Yours, Love Is A Wild Thing](https://archiveofourown.org/works/21078542) by [CynSyn](https://archiveofourown.org/users/CynSyn/pseuds/CynSyn)


End file.
